g>tanfortr    ear 


edited  by 

The  English  Club 


\s 


l 


g>tanforti  gear  ptook  1909 

(edited  by  \ 

The  English  ClubJ 


California 
1909 


Printed  by 

ICfee  fetanlt p-tEalror  Co. 
San  Francisco 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

E  Stanford  English  Club  takes  pleasure  in 
presenting  the  first  of  a  proposed  series  of 
Year  Books,  initiated  with  the  hope  that  it 
may  conduce  to  the  encouragement  of  original  literary 
work  at  Stanford  University.  The  book  has  been  pre- 
pared under  the  supervision  of  a  Committee  of  the 
Club,  which  has  made  every  effort  to  represent  the 
best  undergraduate  work  '• —  hitherto  unpublished  —  of 
the  past  year.  Two  contributions  by  alumnae  (Miss 
Richards  and  Miss  Kimball)  have  also  been  included. 
In  this  connection  it  may  be  proper  to  -awimiiiee 
that  the  English  Club  contemplates  issuing  certain 
other  volumes  in  the  near  future,  among  them  being  a 
reprint  of  the  book  called  "The  First  Year  at  Stan- 
ford," published  in  1905  and  now  out  of  print,  and  an 
anthology  of  Stanford  verse. 

April,  1909. 


2133107 


CONTENTS 

Page 
THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL i 

By  Hiram  Cornell  Fisk 
THE  ROUTING  OF  A  MIND-READER 19 

By  Alice  May  Richards 
THE  DIVIDING  LINE 26 

By  Iva  Myrtle  Miller 
THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 41 

By  Bruce  Ormsby  Bliven 
CLOUDS    \ 67 

By  Marion  Louise  Norton 
THE  CRIME  OF  THE  KJSTAVE  OF  HEARTS 73 

By  Robert  Luther  Duff  us 
LITTLE  KINGDOM    89 

By  Aurania  Ellerbeck 
THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 112 

By  Helen  Campbell 
THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 122 

By  Sidney  N.  Hillyard 
HYLAS  AND  HERACLES 134 

By  Frank  Ernest  Hill 
THE  DARK  143 

By  Frank  Walter  Weymouth 

CAPTIVE 145 

THE  DEPARTURE  146 

SONG   147 

By  Ernest  Jerome  Hopkins 
THE  ALIEN   148 

By  Alice  Windsor  Kimball 
THE  LAND  o'  THE  MOON 149 

By  Alice  Eleanor  Shinn 
SONG   150 

By  Aurania  Ellerbeck 


Efjr  &tanforb  ©ear  IBook  1909 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

By  HIRAM  CORNELL  FISK 
E  man  passed  lightly  along  the  road  in 


his  motley,  singing  to  himself  the  while. 
Down  by  the  brook,  where  he  paused  to 
drink  and  wet  his  hot  forehead,  he  met  a  goose-girl 
tending  her  flock. 

"Good  morrow,  fair  damsel,"  he  said,  bowing  low 
after  he  had  arisen  from  the  water's  edge  and  had 
seen  her  on  the  farther  bank.  "Pray  why  do  you 
waste  your  time  with  the  silly  birds,  when  here 
am  I,  a  dozen  times  gayer  in  plumage  and  a 
thousandfold  more  silly,  craving  only  the  boon  of 
your  acquaintance  in  exchange  for  my  own  ?" 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  surprise,  and  half  rose 
from  her  seat  in  the  green  grass.  She  looked  about 
with  alarm  in  her  face.  They  were  alone  in  a  little 
glen,  where  the  geese  and  the  stream  made  the 
only  sounds  that  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  hot  Sep- 
tember afternoon. 

"Nay  damsel,  do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  hastened 
to  cry,  smiling  to  reassure  her.  "  'Tis  the  loneliest 
heart  in  France,  I  think,  that  beats  beneath  this 
jerkin  of  mine,  the  nether  part  of  which,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  serves  also  to  hide  the  greatest  appetite 
in  Europe,  for  it  is  longer  since  I  feasted  than  since 
I  foraged,  and  both  to  little  enough  purpose  in  the  end." 

The   girl   had   sunk  back  to   her  seat,   her   fear 
banished  by  his  voice.     "Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 
"And  why  do  you  wear  such  a  strange  dress?" 
[1] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"A  fair  question,  and  to  the  point,"  he  cried 
merrily,  crossing  the  stream  at  a  leap.  Then  he 
tossed  his  cap  and  bells  to  the  ground  and  seated 
himself  beside  her.  "Child,  have  you  ever  seen  a 
fool?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  gravely.  "Yes,"  she 
replied.  "There  is  one  such  at  our  village.  He 
spills  the  milk  and  is  very  awkward.  We  call  him 
Stupid  Jules." 

"Sacred  simplicity !"  he  laughed,  catching  up  his 
bells  and  shaking  them  until  the  geese  fled  squawk- 
ing. The  girl  was  after  them  in  an  instant,  and 
soon  had  gathered  them  together  in  the  bottom  of 
the  glen. 

"You  must  not  do  that  again,"  she  said,  when 
she  had  returned.  "It  is  sometimes  very  hard  to 
chase  them.  They  are  even  more  stupid  than 
Jules."  Then  she  sat  down  once  more  beside  her 
sabots,  which  she  had  put  aside,  and  began  to 
scratch  the  green  turf  with  her  bare  toes. 

For  a  moment  he  watched  her.  "But,  child,"  he 
said  at  length,  "it  is  not  of  this  kind  of  fool  that  I 
would  speak.  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  old 
Prince  de  Chalmays  and  his  court?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes;  my  father  has  told  me  that 
once  he  looked  through  a  bright  window  and  saw 
the  Prince's  ballroom,  full  of  nobles  and  fair  ladies, 
who  danced  the  minuet.  And  — "  her  eyes  grew 
round  at  the  thought —  "and  they  wore  jewels,  and 
laces  and  golden  swords — and — "  She  stopped  as 
the  magnificence  of  this  vision  overwhelmed  her. 

"Yes,  child,"  he  said ;  "but  did  he  see  the  fool  ?" 
[2] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

"The  fool !"  she  exclaimed.  "Nay,  good  sir, 
Jules  was  but  a  tiny  lad  then,  and  could  not  go  out 
to  look  upon  the  great  ones  through  their  windows 
at  night." 

He  laughed  again.  "Ah,  little  girl,"  he  said  very 
gently,  "I  must  tell  you  once  more  that  I  do  not 
speak  of  Jules." 

For  a  while  he  watched  the  geese  as  they  squab- 
bled over  some  choice  morsel,  at  a  loss  to  explain 
it  to  her  so  simply  that  she  would  understand.  Then 
he  asked,  "Have  you  never  seen  the  clowns  that  the 
mountebanks  carry  with  them  from  village  to  vil- 
lage to  make  fun  for  the  people?" 

She  nodded  vigorously.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  cried. 
"And  they  are  very  droll,  so  that  even  Jules  had  to 
laugh,  he  who  is  so  stupid ;  until  he  could  not  stop, 
and  still  laughed  when  all  the  others  were  silent, 
and  then  they  were  angry."  Her  face  grew  brighter 
in  a  smile  as  she  remembered  the  noisy  Jules. 

The  man  smiled  too,  as  he  let  himself  sink  flat 
on  the  ground  and  rolled  over  on  his  side  until  he 
could  see  her  again.  "Now  I  shall  tell  you  of  the 
fool  I  mean,"  he  said.  "It  is  another  kind  of  fool, 
you  will  see,  and  yet  much  the  same.  The  Prince 
de  Chalmays  had  such  a  one  at  his  court  not  long 
since,  to  make  merry  for  him.  This  fool  was  not 
dull  like  Jules,  but  bright  as  the  silver  coins  flung 
him  by  the  courtiers.  He  dressed  in  a  very  strange 
garb  of  many  colors,  so  that  everyone  would  know 
him.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  pointed  cap  with  a 
bell  at  its  peak,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  more 
bells — like  these — and  these — "  He  made  a  quick 
[3] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

gesture,  showing  her  the  things  of  which  he  spoke, 
as  they  lay  there  at  his  side.  Her  eyes  grew  wider 
as  she  began  to  understand.  He  checked  her 
exclamation  with  a  gesture,  and  went  on : 

"Oh,  he  was  a  very  droll  fool,  not  dull  in  the 
least.  Every  day  he  danced  about  before  the 
Prince  and  the  court,  always  saying  things  to  make 
them  laugh.  To  the  Prince  he  could  speak  as  no 
other  dared  to  speak.  And  if  a  courtier  fell  but  an 
inch  in  his  master's  esteem,  then  woe  to  him,  for 
the  fool  hurled  dart  on  dart,  while  the  court 
laughed.  It  is  easy,  and  cheap,  to  laugh  at  a  fallen 
man,  and  it  is  not  dangerous." 

The  goose-girl  was  listening  intently.  "Should 
you  have  liked  to  be  the  fool  ?"  her  companion  asked, 
of  a  sudden. 

"And  live  at  the  grand  court?"  she  questioned 
eagerly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "and  live  at  court." 

"Ah,  that  I  should!"  she  cried  with  rapture. 
Think  of  the  beautiful  things.  Think  of — "  Again 
she  was  speechless  at  the  idea. 

A  wry  smile  curled  the  man's  lips.  "Ay,  the 
beautiful  things,"  he  repeated.  "At  first  it  was  well 
enough,"  he  went  on.  "The  fool  enjoyed  the  game 
he  played.  It  suited  his  fancy  to  fill  the  ladies  and 
their  gallants  with  merriment  at  his  antics.  In 
this  he  was  like  the  clown,  and  some  of  the  courtiers 
laughed  as  long  as  thickheaded  Jules,  until  they  for- 
got what  made  them  laugh.  And  the  others  were 
not  angry,  like  your  village  people  when  the  laugh- 
ter of  Jules  grew  tiresome  to  them,  for  the  fool  had 
[4] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

always  some  new  jest  to  fling  at  the  stupid  ones, 
until  the  court  held  its  very  sides  for  mirth,  and 
men  swore  that  never  before  had  there  lived  a  rascal 
so  clever.  So  the  fool  lived;  but  he  became  weary 
of  it." 

The  man  in  motley  was  not  smiling.  He  paused, 
and  then  looked  up  quickly.  "Have  you  ever  loved 
anyone?"  he  asked.  The  little  goose-girl's  innocent 
eyes  fell  and  he  saw  a  wave  of  red  mount  to  her 
cheeks. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "a  village  lad?  He  looks  at  you 
in  church,  and  sometimes  he  dares  to  dance  with  you 
at  the  festivals  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head  still  lower.  "Yes,"  she  mur- 
mured faintly,  in  pitiable  confusion. 

He  gazed  at  her  very  kindly.  "I  am  glad,  little 
one,"  he  said,  "for  now  perhaps  you  will  understand. 
But  I  pray  the  Holy  Virgin  that  you  may  never 
know  the  pain  of  loving  higher  than  you  dare  look." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment.  The  girl,  still 
abashed,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  She 
dug  her  toes  into  the  turf,  scooping  out  a  little 
hole  beneath  a  burdock  leaf,  which  trembled  as  the 
earth  came  away  from  below  it.  At  length 
curiosity  overcame  her. 

"You — you  were  telling  of  the  fool,"  she  ven- 
tured. "I  am  sorry  because  he  was  not  happy." 

He  smiled  at  her  sympathy,  looking  at  her  as  a 
man  does  who  wishes  to  tell  a  tale,  but  is  not  yet 
sure  of  his  hearer.  The  goose-girl  turned  her  eyes 
on  him  suddenly,  as  if  divining  his  thought. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  laying  her  fingers  uncon- 
[5] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

sciously  on  his  arm  in  a  simple  gesture.  "I  wish 
to  hear  more  of  this  fool,  for  whom  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Ah,  heart  of  gold,"  he  said,  "I  shall  tell  you." 
Still  he  was  silent  for  a  space.  "Now  this  fool," 
he  went  on  at  length,  "this  fool  fell  in  love.  You 
must  know  that  the  Prince  de  Chalmays  had  a 
daughter,  very  fair  and  good,  whom  all  that  knew 
her  loved  most  devotedly,  whether  they  would  or 
no,  so  great  was  her  comeliness  and  so  many  her 
virtues.  What  wonder  that  the  fool  should  love 
with  the  others?  And  what  wonder  that  the  Duke 
Michael  should  pay  mad  court  to  the  Princess 
Margaret,  once  his  passion  was  aflame?  The  Duke 
Michael  and  the  fool !  A  wondrous  pair  of  lovers 
they.  If  the  fool  had  been  like  stupid  Jules  he 
would  not  have  fallen  in  love.  But  he  was  not  like 
Jules,  as  I  have  told  you. 

"For  a  long  time  the  Duke  Michael  sued  for  the 
hand  of  the  Princess.  He  was  but  one  of  many, 
it  is  true,  and  others  there  were  both  younger  and 
better  to  look  upon.  Michael  had  led  an  evil  life, 
but  he  was  very  rich,  and  this  caused  the  avaricious 
old  Prince  to  favor  his  courtship.  Yet  the  Princess 
Margaret  had  learned  of  his  wild  ways  and  would 
have  none  of  him.  Now  I  have  heard  that  there 
was  a  strain  of  madness  in  the  Duke's  blood,  come 
down  from  some  Berserker  forbear  in  the  olden 
time  when  the  Vikings  sailed  the  seas.  Certain  it 
is  that  on  many  days  the  fool  saw  him  go  from  the 
Princess  cursing,  and  swearing  that  he  would  have 
her  in  the  end,  though  hell  itself  must  be  bridged 
to  win  her.  As  for  the  fool,  he  jested  while  his  heart 
[6] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

ached  within  him,  and  loved  where  he  durst  scarce 
even  send  his  eyes.  Thus  was  his  lot  made  half 
bitter  and  half  sweet;  he  loathed  the  life  that  he 
led,  but  he  would  not  obey  his  proud  spirit  and 
leave  the  court  so  long  as  he  might  look  upon  the 
Princess  Margaret  there." 

It  may  have  been  that  now  the  little  goose-girl 
understood,  although  she  had  never  seen  the  splen- 
dor of  courts.  There  were  pity  and  sympathy  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  the  man  before  her. 

"One  day  there  was  a  famine,"  he  continued,  "so 
that  the  people  came  crying  to  the  palace  gates  for 
bread,  and  the  Prince's  treasure  must  be  used  to 
feed  them.  In  his  despair  that  many  should  die — 
for  the  Prince  was  fearful  of  a  revolt  among  his 
peasants — he  turned  to  Duke  Michael  for  money. 
But  Michael,  who  in  power  was  the  equal  of  the 
Prince,  swore  that  he  must  have  the  Princess,  or 
no  penny  of  his  hoard  would  he  touch.  So  a  bar- 
gain was  made. 

"Now  the  fool  might  go  into  many  places  where 
others  were  forbidden  to  enter,  and  herein  lay  his 
opportunity.  He  was  in  the  Prince's  chamber  one 
day,  and  when  Michael  entered  he  slipped  behind 
a  curtain,  pushing  the  door  shut  as  he  did  so.  Thus 
the  two  believed  themselves  to  be  alone,  and  this  it 
was  that  they  plotted :  On  a  certain  night  Michael 
was  to  come  with  two  horsemen,  and  with  one  of 
them  he  was  to  enter  the  chamber  of  the  Princess, 
which  would  be  open  to  him  through  a  faithless 
tiring-woman,  and  take  her  away  to  his  castle, 
where  he  would  force  her  to  marry  him  before  the 
[7] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

morning  dawned.  In  other  wise  than  this  the 
Prince  could  not  give  her  to  Michael,  for  she  was 
beloved  of  the  people,  who  would  not  see  her  marry 
against  her  will.  On  this  same  night  others  of 
Michael's  men  would  bring  a  certain  treasure  to  the 
Prince,  which  was  the  purchase  price  of  the  Prin- 
cess. She,  poor  maiden,  would  be  the  Duke's  wife 
even  before  she  was  missed  at  the  palace,  and  for 
very  shame  would  tell  naught  evil  of  the  event. 
Thus  this  villainous  suitor  and  cruel  parent  bar- 
tered away  the  Princess,  who  to  the  fool  was  more 
even  than  his  life." 

He  paused.  Some  of  the  geese  had  wandered  far 
away,  but  the  girl  did  not  heed  them.  She  hardly 
breathed  as  she  waited  for  his  next  words.  "Tell 
me,"  she  pleaded  when  he  paused,  "tell  me,  did  the 
Princess  know?" 

"No,  the  Princess  had  learned  nothing,  for  this 
fool  would  not  tell  her.  That  proves  him  a  fool 
indeed,  mayhap,  but  he  could  not  bear  that  any 
other  than  he  should  rescue  her  whom  he  loved.  So 
he  wove  a  plan  by  which  he  might  kill  this  black 
Michael  with  his  own  hands.  That  there  should 
be  perfect  secrecy  he  told  no  one  save  a  wretched 
boy  who  served  as  scullion  in  the  kitchen.  This 
boy  the  fool  had  saved  from  death  one  cold  day  in 
winter,  when  his  parents,  of  the  gipsy  peoples,  had 
left  him  sick  by  the  wayside.  Now  he  was  grate- 
ful and  would  give  his  life  for  his  master.  It  was 
the  single  joy  of  the  fool  that  this  wretched  creature 
should  bear  a  love  so  great  for  him. 

"Now  on  the  night  set  by  Michael  for  his  deed 
[8] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

the  Prince  was  to  give  a  great  ball,  so  that  all  his 
people  might  revel  deep,  and  sleep  like  the  dead 
when  it  was  over.  He  was  very  crafty,  and  willed 
that  none  should  hear  his  daughter  if  perchance  she 
should  cry  aloud  when  the  Duke  came.  There  were 
great  preparations  for  the  ball,  which  was  to  be  a 
masque.  Perhaps  it  was  that  one  which  your 
father  saw,  little  goose-maiden." 

"It  may  well  have  been,"  she  assented.  "I  have 
heard  him  tell  of  a  time  when  all  men  of  the  land 
were  hungry  and  the  great  ones  would  give  only 
when  they  must." 

"Yes,  it  was  so,  child.  The  lords  and  ladies 
gathered  in  their  finest  array  that  night.  For  a 
while  the  fool  was  there,  too,  in  his  motley.  Then 
when  the  gayety  was  at  its  height  he  slipped  away 
up  a  certain  passage  he  knew  well,  and  put  upon  him 
a  suit  of  chain-mail,  very  fine,  which  he  had  laid 
aside  from  the  armorer's  store.  It  was  a  brave 
figure  he  made,  this  fool  who  was  so  unlike  Jules. 
With  a  light  helmet  and  domino,  none  would  mistake 
him  for  other  than  a  dashing  cavalier  of  the  court. 
When  he  was  dressed  thus  he  returned  to  the  ball 
and  danced  with  the  others.  He  saw  Michael 
staring  at  the  Princess  with  greed  in  his  eyes,  and 
noted  the  weight  on  the  Prince's  brow,  as  though 
he  revolved  some  deep  matter  long  in  his  mind. 
Of  all  the  brave  company  only  these  three  were  not 
masked.  Once  the  fool  touched  the  hand  of  the 
Princess  as  they  danced,  and  this  was  sweet  to  him. 
After  a  time  the  masks  came  off,  but  ere  this  he  had 
withdrawn  himself,  and  spoke  for  a  last  time  with 
[9] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

his  scullion  boy.  They  called  for  him  in  the  ball- 
room ;  but  none  thought  to  seek  among  the  pots  and 
kettles,  and  he  was  not  found.  After  all  had  eaten 
and  drunk  very  heartily  they  went  to  rest  when  the 
hours  were  small,  and  the  castle  became  quiet. 

"For  this  moment  the  fool  was  ready.  He  stole 
down  the  passageway  to  the  apartments  of  the 
Princess,  stepping  over  the  guards,  who  lay  prone, 
heavy  with  drugged  wine  given  them  by  the  tiring- 
woman.  Then  he  knocked  softly  at  the  outer  door, 
as  it  was  agreed  Michael  should  do,  and  this  woman 
came  out.  She  was  surprised,  but  the  fool  was 
ready  and  grasped  her  throat  before  she  could 
scream.  Then  he  dragged  her  into  another  room 
and  bound  her  to  a  table,  with  many  folds  of  linen 
in  her  mouth,  so  that  she  made  no  sound.  As  this 
was  finished  there  came  the  beat  of  muffled  hoofs  on 
the  drawbridge,  which  the  drunken  guard  had  left 
down.  It  was  Michael  and  his  two  men.  The  fool 
snatched  up  the  tiring-woman's  mantle,  draping  it 
about  him  and  pulling  it  over  his  head  in  such 
manner  that  one  would  think  it  was  she  who  stood 
there  in  the  dim  rays  of  the  single  rushlight.  Then 
he  took  station  in  the  outer  chamber  whence  she  had 
come.  The  gate  creaked,  unguarded  also,  and  a 
moment  later  Duke  Michael  appeared  in  the  pas- 
sage, followed  by  one  of  the  men,  whose  fellow  had 
been  left  below  with  the  horses. 

"Then  it  was  that  the  little  scullion  showed  the 

true  heart  in  him.     From  a  dark  corner  beneath  the 

wall  he  sprang  out  and  buried  his  knife  deep  in 

the  flank  of  the  horse-guard's  steed.      The  animal 

[10] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

reared,  wild  with  pain,  and  in  an  instant  had  carried 
its  rider  madly  across  the  drawbridge  into  the  open 
country,  where  it  was  followed  by  the  others  in  a 
panic.  Through  a  window  in  the  tower  Duke 
Michael  saw  them  go,  and  he  turned  to  his  fol- 
lower. 

"'Peste!'  he  whispered  fiercely.  'The  dolt  has 
loosed  the  horses !  Run,  Pierre,  and  help  him 
bring  them  back.  Your  life  if  you  fail  me  this 
night.' 

"The  fellow  was  off  at  once,  running  lightly. 
Michael  did  not  wait  for  him.  He  listened  a 
moment ;  still  all  the  castle  slept,  too  weary  to 
awaken.  He  crept  along  the  passage  to  the  end, 
bearing  a  heavy  mantle  on  his  arm,  from  ^7hic1i 
trailed  thongs  wherewith  to  bind  the  Princess.  At 
the  door  he  paused,  and  then  knocked  in  the  manner 
agreed  upon.  The  fool  opened,  standing  in  the 
shadow. 

"  'Ah,  woman,  you  have  done  well,'  said  the  Duke. 
'Does  the  Princess  sleep?' 

"  'Ay,  my  lord  Duke,'  answered  the  fool. 

"Something  in  his  whispered  tone  caused  Michael 
to  look  a  second  time.  Then  the  fool  struck,  with  a 
long  dagger  which  he  had  placed  at  his  hip  when 
he  donned  the  suit  of  mail.  It  was  a  shrewd  blow, 
full  of  hatred ;  but  Michael  threw  up  his  arm  and 
caught  it  in  the  folds  of  the  cloak,  so  that  he  passed 
unscathed.  Then  he  drew  forth  his  own  dagger, 
for  the  passage  was  too  small  for  sword  play,  and 
struck  in  return.  It  had  gone  ill  then  with  the  fool, 
whose  blade  was  entangled  in  the  folds  of  Michael's 
[11] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

mantle,  had  the  good  mail  not  turned  the  point. 
Then  they  sprang  apart,  both  in  the  corridor  now, 
and  the  fight  began.  The  fool  had  forgotten  his 
steel  suit,  and  now  cursed  it  in  his  heart,  for  he 
willed  to  meet  the  Duke  on  even  terms.  Yet  it  was 
well  that  he  was  saved  by  it,  since  he  was  not  skilled 
in  the  use  of  arms. 

"Michael  kept  his  cloak  as  a  shield,  parrying  with 
great  skill  and  trying  vainly  to  pierce  the  fine  chain- 
armor  of  the  other. 

"There  was  no  sound  but  the  breathing  of  the  two 
and  the  clash  of  their  blades.  The  Duke  thought 
to  kill  his  man  without  arousing  the  palace,  and 
take  the  Princess ;  the  fool  was  resolved  to  defend 
her  alone.  Michael  charged  impetuously,  bearing 
the  other  back  by  sheer  weight.  His  face  showed 
dark  with  anger  in  the  dim  light,  his  blows  were 
quick  and  heavy,  so  that  the  fool  all  but  cried  out 
with  the  pain  even  when  they  crashed  without  harm 
into  the  good  coat  of  proof.  He  had  much  ado  to 
guard  his  head,  laying  his  left  arm  over  his  brow 
while  he  struck  in  return  with  his  right.  Ever  and 
ever  the  Duke  whispered  curses,  raging  because  his 
blade  could  not  carry  death  when  it  went  home. 
The  fool  fought  in  silence. 

"Of  a  sudden  Michael  paused,  springing  back 
with  a  low  cry  as  a  thought  came  to  him.  'Hold !' 
he  said.  'Who  are  you,  and  why  are  you  here?' 

"The  fool  stayed  his  hand,  and  they  leaned  pant- 
ing against  the  wall,  both  with  caution,  each  dis- 
trusting the  other.     Michael  repeated  his  question. 
'Who  are  you?'  he  asked  again. 
[12] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

"For  answer  the  other  turned  his  face  to  the  light. 
Michael  saw  and  swore  roundly.  'By  Saint  Agnes, 
fool,  you  do  ill  to  cross  my  path  this  night.' 

"  'I  guard  the  Princess,'  said  the  fool,  simply. 

"  'Ay,  and  die  in  the  doing.'  Michael  raised  his 
dagger;  then  thought  better  of  it  and  lowered  his 
point  again. 

"  'We  lose  time,'  he  said.  'Fool,  what  is  your 
price?' 

"The  fool  drew  himself  up  as  straight  as  man  is 
permitted  to  stand  in  this  world.  'I  have  no  price/ 
he  answered.  'I  fight  and  die  for  the  Princess.' 

"Michael's  fingers  trembled  on  the  hilt.  Again  he 
thought  to  slay  the  fool  in  fair  fight ;  but  he  was  very 
crafty.  He  looked  of  a  sudden  over  the  other's 
head  and  beyond  into  the  black  passageway. 
'Pierre !'  he  cried  softly. 

"The  fool  turned,  thinking  in  his  folly  that  the 
Duke's  man  was  come  up  from  below.  The  pas- 
sage was  empty.  Even  as  he  turned  Michael  was 
upon  him.  He  had  but  time  to  drop  to  his  knees ; 
the  Duke's  blade  passed  with  a  rush  above  his  head, 
and  the  two  rolled  over  and  over  on  the  stone  floor, 
grappling  as  they  fell.  Each  clung  to  his  dagger, 
until  the  fool's  arm  struck  the  wall  and  his  weapon 
was  knocked  from  his  hand.  He  twined  his  long 
fingers  about  the  Duke's  throat,  striving  to  choke 
him.  Michael  brought  down  his  blade  time  after 
time,  failing  always  to  find  an  unguarded  spot.  Now 
one  was  above,  now  the  other,  as  they  wrestled. 

"At  length  the  Duke,  heavy  with  good  living, 
began  to  tire.  His  breath  came  hard,  and  a  weak- 
[13] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

ness  seized  him.  Yet  there  remained  in  him  the 
strength  for  a  last  great  effort,  by  which  he  tore 
the  fool's  fingers  from  his  throat  and  rose  to  his 
feet.  For  a  breath  the  fool  crouched  on  the  floor. 
His  groping  hands  fell  by  chance  upon  his  dagger 
again.  He  met  Michael's  charge  with  a  leap,  and 
fire  shot  from  their  grinding  blades.  They  drew 
back  together  for  a  second  blow,  but  the  Duke  was 
not  swift  enough.  Quick  as  light  the  fool  sprang 
within  his  guard,  burying  his  blade  in  the  other's 
neck.  Michael's  cry  was  drowned  in  a  rush  of  blood. 
He  slid  to  the  floor  and  the  life  went  out  of  him. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  devil  chose  to  take  to  himself 
a  very  great  rascal.  May  God  will  it  so  for  all 
such." 

"Amen,"  whispered  the  little  goose-girl,  crossing 
herself  fervently. 

"It  was  at  this  point  that  Pierre,  the  Duke's  man, 
returned  from  his  quest  after  the  horses.  They  had 
fled  far  afield,  where  he  could  not  find  them,  and 
he  was  come  to  warn  Michael  that  the  east  was 
beginning  to  flush  with  the  dawn.  The  fool  saw  him 
steal  up  the  passageway,  and  crouched  with  hot 
dagger  to  spring  upon  him. 

"But  now  a  surprising  thing  happened.  Pierre 
stumbled  over  his  master's  body  and  recoiled 
before  it,  fleeing  back  whence  he  had  come.  Then 
the  passage  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  be  alive  with 
armed  men,  who  fell  upon  him  and  slew  him  as  he 
ran.  Surprised,  the  fool  rose  from  his  corner  for 
an  instant,  and  the  men  saw  him  standing  there 
with  bloody  dagger.  Knowing  his  face,  they 
[14] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

rushed  at  him,  crying,  'The  fool!      He  has  killed 
her!      Slay  him !' 

"There  seemed  to  be  no  escape,  but  this  fool 
would  not  give  himself  up  lightly  to  death  while 
the  Princess  still  lived.  He  turned  and  ran  into 
her  outer  chamber,  bolting  the  heavy  door  from  the 
inside  as  the  men-at-arms  launched  themselves 
against  it.  While  they  hewed  and  battered  from 
without  he  stripped  his  chain-mail  from  him  and 
cast  it  aside.  Then  he  mounted  to  the  ledge  of  an 
open  window,  ready  to  leap  into  the  full  moat  below. 
Only  for  an  instant  did  he  turn  back,  and  there 
he  saw  that  which  moved  his  heart  as  neither  the 
fight  with  Michael  nor  his  great  peril  had  power 
to  move  it.  The  Princess  had  been  awakened  by 
'the  clamor,  and  now  she  came  forth  from  her 
chamber  with  a  tiny  light  in  her  hand.  She  was 
tall  and  slim  and  very  beautiful  in  her  white  robe, 
and  her  hair  fell  black  as  jet  all  about  her  shoulders. 
This  it  was  given  the  fool  to  see  for  an  instant, 
while  his  heart  well-nigh  burst  within  him.  Then 
the  door  crashed  open,  he  turned  to  leap,  there  was  a 
rush  of  cool  air,  and  the  black  water  closed  over 
him." 

The  man  in  motley  paused,  looking  down  upon 
the  geese,  which  bickered  and  squawked  in  a  muddy 
pool  formed  by  the  stream.  Evening  was  coming, 
and  the  sun  had  just  dropped  below  the  hill  that 
rose  to  the  west. 

"And  then — ?"  questioned  the  girl  tensely. 

"Oh,  he  escaped." 

"But  the  armed  men  who  slew  Pierre?" 
[15] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"They  were  the  Prince's  retainers.  I  have  told 
you  that  he  was  a  very  crafty  man,  and  that  at  the 
ball  he  seemed  to  be  uneasy  in  his  mind.  There 
had  come  to  him  the  wish  to  have  Michael's  money 
and  his  daughter  as  well,  so  that  he  might  perhaps 
drive  a  bargain  for  her  with  still  another  noble. 
When  the  gold  had  been  brought  by  the  Duke's 
knaves  in  the  night,  and  they  were  gone,  he  rose 
from  his  bed  after  a  while  and  gathered  together 
certain  of  his  men,  telling  them  that  until  morning 
they  must  guard  the  Princess.  He  willed  to  have 
Michael  slain  as  the  abductor  of  his  daughter, 
caught  in  this  evil  act,  which  would  free  him  from 
all  blame.  You  have  heard  how  these  men  came 
and  what  they  did;  but  they  came  too  late,  and 
had  the  fool  not  planned  his  plan  then  the  Duke 
would  have  won  the  Princess  indeed." 

"And  the  fool  was  not  taken,  you  say?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"No.  In  the  hills  he  found  one  of  Michael's 
horses  near  the  body  of  his  retainer,  whose  neck 
was  broken  by  a  great  stone  upon  which  he  had 
been  thrown.  The  fool  rode  to  the  ocean  and 
there  took  passage  to  foreign  lands.  He  did  not 
dare  to  come  back,  for  it  might  be  said  that  he 
had  aided  the  Duke  and  he  would  be  hanged.  It  is 
not  well  for  a  man  to  be  hanged." 

"But  he  has  come  back!"  exclaimed  the  goose- 
girl.  "Of  that  I  am  sure." 

The  man  laughed.     "You  are  a  woman,"  he  said, 
inclining  his  head  as  far  as  one  may  when  he  is  lying 
upon  the  ground.    "Yes,  he  has  come  back." 
[16] 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  FOOL 

He  sat  up  slowly.  "The  fool  loved  the  Princess," 
he  said.  "The  fool  could  not  forget  her.  He  could 
not  find  peace  in  the  world  without  looking  upon 
her  face.  He  lived  a  hard  life  in  many  lands;  but 
at  length  there  came  the  news  that  the  old  Prince 
was  dead,  slain  in  his  sinful  age  by  a  kinsman  of 
Michael,  who  alone  of  all  men  knew  how  traitorous 
had  been  that  wicked  man  to  the  Duke.  Now  the 
Princess  Margaret  is  Princess  indeed,  and  she  has 
graciously  pardoned  all  offenders  against  the  laws  in 
celebration  of  this  her  coming  to  rule  over  the 
people.  I  know  not  how  it  is" —  he  raised  his 
head  and  his  eyes  showed  a  new  light,  very  soft 
and  tender — "I  know  not  why,  but  she  is  still 
unwed.  And  I  am  glad.  Now  the  fool  dares  come 
again  to  his  native  land.  He  has  given  up  all  his 
silver  pieces  for  his  motley,  his  cap  and  bells,  and 
he  walks  hungry  to  the  court  of  the  Princess  Mar- 
garet, hoping  that  after  these  years  she  will  feed 
him  again.  Perchance  she  will  let  him  stay." 

"And  be  still  a — a — fool?"  hesitated  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  he  said  softly,  "and  be  still  a  fool.  Tis 
better  to  love  as  a  fool  than  to  live  as  a  wise  man 
without  love,  and  in  all  things  save  his  love  the 
fool  may  be  the  wisest  man  of  all." 

They  sat  for  a  little  time  silent,  the  goose-girl  and 
the  buffoon  that  loved  the  Princess  Margaret.  It 
was  very  still  in  the  glen  while  the  evening  shadows 
came  down.  The  geese  put  their  heads  under  their 
wings  with  sleepy  quacking  and  settled  themselves 
to  rest.  Their  mistress  had  forgot  to  drive  them  home. 

[17] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Suddenly  from  a  little  church  in  the  village  beyond 
the  glen  there  sounded  the  angelus,  faint  and  sweet. 
Both  were  on  their  feet  at  once,  and  stood  with 
bowed  heads  until  the  prayer  was  over.  Then 
they  looked  at  each  other  with  a  strange  feeling 
of  fellowship  between  them. 

"Farewell,  little  goose-girl,"  he  said,  touching  her 
fingers  with  his  own.  "May  your  dreams  be  always 
sweet,  your  lover  faithful,  and  your  heart  pure,  as 
becomes  a  subject  of  the  good  Princess  Margaret." 

He  bowed  very  low,  put  on  his  long  cap  and 
started  up  the  dusty  road.  At  the  top  of  the  ridge 
that  bounded  the  glen  he  turned  and  shook  his 
bells  merrily  at  her,  so  that  she  could  hear  them 
tinkle  through  the  twilight.  Then  he  was  gone — to 
the  Princess. 


[18] 


THE  ROUTING  OF  A  MIND-READER 

By  ALICE  MAY  RICHARDS 

ILHELMINA,  huddled  in  the  big  rocker 
by  the  stove,  felt  peevish  and  looked  it.  To 
be  sure  she  had  some  excuse,  with  a  side  of 
her  thin  little  face  swollen  so  big  with  the  mumps 
that  it  shut  out  the  sight  of  one  eye.  The  other, 
however,  gleamed  vindictively  upon  Genevieve,  en- 
gaged in  her  weekly  Saturday  afternoon  task  of 
putting  away  the  laundry,  just  back  from  Hop  Lee. 
The  interesting  part  of  this  ceremony  arose  from  the 
fact  that  Hop  Lee  always  wrapped  up  his  clean 
clothes  in  a  wonderful  newspaper,  the  like  of  which 
had  never  yet  made  legitimate  entrance  into  the 
Newberry  household.  Glaring  black  headlines 
adorned  each  page,  and  all  the  thrilling  things  that 
happen  in  the  big  world  outside  were  to  be  found 
on  record  beneath  them.  But  always,  as  soon  as  the 
last  clean  towel  was  tucked  away  in  the  linen  closet, 
along  came  Aunt  Louisa,  who  saw  to  it  that  the  fas- 
cinating sheet  was  stuffed  away  in  the  big  Queen 
stove.  So  Genevieve,  defrauded  of  some  choice  bit 
caught  between  trips,  must  stand  helplessly  by, 
winding  up  the  cord,  while  the  account  of  some 
abused  orphan,  desperate  highwayman  or  wrecked 
train  went  roaring  up  the  chimney,  before  her  very 
eyes. 

This  afternoon  that  sleek  little  person  lingered 
long  over  her  task,  for  the  coast  was  clear  save  for 
the  baleful  eye  of  Wilhelmina.     Her  arms  filled  with 
[19] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

the  last  lot  of  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  she  leaned 
over  Hop  Lee's  wrapping  paper,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes 
shining,  breath  coming  quick.  Wilhelmina  watched 
her  with  shrewd  gaze.  Carefully  she  noted  the  loca- 
tion of  this  spell-binding  subject-matter — second 
page,  third  column. 

"Johnny!"  she  ejaculated,  in  virtuous  displeasure. 
Genevieve  started  and  flushed  guiltily.  "Ain't  you 
'shamed  to  be  readin'  that  paper  when  Aunt  Louisa 
forbade  you!  You  take  those  things  right  upstairs 
this  minute,  or  I'll  tell  her  when  she  gets  back." 

Genevieve  checked  an  impulse  to  stick  out  her 
tongue  at  her  tormentor,  but  instead  puffed  her 
cheek  far  out  and  closed  one  eye  over  the  unsightly 
lump.  Wilhelmina  looked  the  other  way.  As  soon 
as  the  door  closed  behind  her  sister,  she  jumped  up, 
and  scurrying  across  the  room,  captured  the  paper. 
Back  again  in  her  chair  by  the  stove,  she  scanned 
eagerly  the  third  column  of  page  two.  "Heroine 
of  the  Bonny  Belle  disaster — Brave  girl  sings  'Nearer 
my  God  to  Thee'  while  half-drowned  people  cling  to 
a  partly  submerged  life-raft."  Thrilled  in  spite  of 
herself,  Wilhelmina  commenced  to  drink  in  the  de- 
tails contained  in  the  finer  print.  Steps  sounded  on 
the  stairs  outside.  Hastily  she  tore  out  the  third 
column  of  the  second  page,  folded  it  smooth  and 
thrust  it  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron.  In  another 
moment  the  remainder  of  the  paper  was  roaring 
up  the  chimney,  and  Wilhelmina  the  virtuous  sat 
back  in  her  chair,  harjds  folded  patiently  upon  her 
lap.  Into  the  room  burst  Genevieve,  also  thirsty  for 
details.  One  despairing  glance  revealed  the  treach- 
[20] 


THE  ROUTING  OF  A  MIND -READER 

ery  of  Wilhelmina,  chaste  guardian  of  the  morals 
of  her  sister. 

"Oh,  Willy,  ain't  you  meaner'n  mean !  "  wailed  the 
guarded  one.  "I  did  so  want  to  read  the  rest." 

Wilhelmina  screwed  up  her  mouth  primly,  in 
excellent  copy  of  Aunt  Louisa. 

"Will  you  never  understand,  my  dear,  that  this  is 
no  fit  reading  for  little  girls?  The  stove  is  the  only 
place  for  such  inflammatory  matter,"  she  remarked 
with  dignity.  Then,  veering  suddenly  about,  she  let 
fly  upon  the  drooping  figure  beside  her  the  relentless 
shaft  of  ridicule.  "Pooh,  you  little  softie,  bet  you 
been  wishin'  all  the  way  upstairs  that  you  knew  the 
words  to  'Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,'  now  weren't  you, 
Johnny  Newberry,  weren't  you,  weren't  you,  weren't 
you  ?"  her  voice  rose  in  high  crescendo. 

The  soul  of  Genevieve  was  simple  and  without 
guile.  Smitten  dumb  by  this  display  of  insight,  she 
stared  at  Wilhelmina  with  round  startled  eyes.  Self- 
possession  deserted  her  completely. 

"Why  Willy,  h — how  did  you  know  it?"  she  stam- 
mered. 

Wilhelmina  shot  a  piercing  glance  at  her  from  the 
green  eye  that  wasn't  closed. 

"I  can  read  your  mind,"  she  hissed.  "Don't  you 
see  something  strange  in  my  eye?  Can't  you  feel 
me  doing  it  now?  I  can  see  right  inside  of  your 
head.  You're  thinking  about  — " 

With  a  howl  of. dismay,  Genevieve  tore  her  fas- 
cinated gaze  from  her  sister's  face,  and  as  fast  as 
her  feet  could  carry  her  fled  out  of  the  house  to  her 
place  of  refuge  next  door — the  sand-pile  of  the  Den- 
[21] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

nison  twins — fat  and  podgy  to  be  sure,  but  innocent 
of  all  designs  upon  one's  inner  consciousness. 

Left  to  herself  in  the  quiet  sitting-room,  Wilhel- 
mina  curled  her  thin  legs  up  under  her  and  settled 
into  brooding  thought.  Sounds  of  revelry  from  the 
Dennisons'  yard  indicated  that  Genevieve  had  freed 
herself  from  the  bonds  of  mesmerism  and  was  once 
more  enjoying  life.  Thus  insured  against  interrup- 
tion, she  cautiously  drew  from  her  pocket  the  account 
of  the  heroine  of  the  Bonny  Belle,  and  read  it  through 
with  breathless  interest,  once,  twice,  even  three 
times.  The  perusal  over,  she  leaned  back  and  fell 
to  enacting  the  scene  with  herself  as  heroine.  She 
co  aid  see  vividly  the  pale  women,  clutching  with 
desperate  hands  at  the  planks  of  the  life-raft.  She 
herself  had  given  up  her  place  to  a  woman  with  a 
baby  and  was  in  the  water,  clinging  to  the  rope 
along  the  side.  Her  hair  was  floating  all  about  her 
like  brown  sea-weed.  The  water  was  bitterly  cold — 
the  chill  of  it  gripped  her  to  the  marrow.  Her  fin- 
gers were  numb  and  aching,  yet  not  a  tone  of  the 
voice  which  father  always  praised,  shook  or  faltered 
as  she  sang,  high  and  clear,  the  words  of  the  grand 
old  hymn,  "Nearer  my  God  to  Thee,  nearer  — " 

Wilhelmina  came  to  herself  with  a  start.  Actually 
she  didn't  know  the  words  any  more  than  sleek  little 
Johnny,  who  couldn't  sing  a  note !  What  if  such  an 
emergency  should  ever  arise  in  her  life,  and  she 
should  be  forced  to  sing  "Let  the  Blessed  Sunshine 
In,"  or  even  "Sewanee  River,"  in  lieu  of  any  other 
memory  treasures?  The  thought  stung  her  into 
sudden  resolution.  For  a  moment  she  listened 
[22] 


THE  ROUTING  OF  A  MIND-READER 

intently  for  sounds  from  the  Dennison  back  yard.  A 
contented  murmur  still  came  to  her  ears.  After  her 
recent  and  successful  mind-reading  exploit  and  her 
scornful  handling  of  its  effect  upon  the  victim,  it 
would  never  do  to  be  caught  with  a  kindred  impulse 
actually  being  put  into  action.  Satisfied,  she  rose 
and  tiptoed  furtively  over  to  the  piano  music-rack, 
where  diligent  rummaging  produced  a  battered 
hymn  book.  Returning  to  her  chair  she  found  the 
place,  propped  the  book  open  in  her  lap,  and  with 
eyes  closing  and  opening  spasmodically,  shoulders 
swaying  back  and  forth,  lips  murmuring  fast  and 
furiously,  she  fell  into  a  vortex  of  memorizing.  The 
first  verse  acquired,  she  commenced  upon  the  second. 
This  didn't  go  so  easily.  She  caught  herself  nod- 
ding at  intervals.  The  room  was  very  warm  and  the 
chair  comfortable.  The  book  slipped  quietly  from 
her  hands  and  lay  upon  her  knees.  The  looted  third 
column  of  the  second  page  of  Hop  Lee's  wrapping 
paper  fluttered  unheeded  to  the  floor.  With  a  long- 
drawn  sigh  Wilhelmina  was  sound  asleep. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  door  opened,  and  Gene- 
vieve's  smooth  yellow  head  was  poked  cautiously 
around  the  jamb.  Emboldened  by  the  quiet,  she 
stole  in  and  tiptoed  over  toward  the  music-rack. 
Half  way  across  the  room  she  stopped  short  and 
stared  with  open  mouth  at  the  quiet  limp  figure  in 
the  big  chair,  the  book  open  upon  the  knees,  the 
scrap  of  newspaper  lying  by  the  feet.  Gradually 
the  situation  dawned  upon  her  stolid  little  brain.  A 
whoop  of  exultant  derision  rose  to  her  lips,  only  to 
be  stifled  before  it  could  cleave  the  silence  of  the 
[23] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

room.  She  stood  quite  still,  a  thoughtful  pucker 
gathering  between  her  mild  blue  eyes.  Here  was 
Wilhelmina,  exponent  of  scepticism,  assailant  of  all 
manner  of  sentimentality,  guardian  of  morals, 
caught  with  the  damning  evidence  actually  upon 
her.  Nothing  was  necessary  except  to  waken  the 
sleeper  and  confront  her  with  her  guilt.  But  still 
Genevieve  hesitated,  studying  the  mump-distorted 
countenance  of  her  sister.  Experience  told  her  that 
a  personal  encounter  with  Wilhelmina  would  bring 
no  triumph  to  her,  no  matter  what  humiliation  might 
consume  that  high-spirited  young  lady  inwardly. 
Genevieve  knew  herself  powerless  against  Wilhel- 
mina's  tongue,  to  say  nothing  of  that  "strangeness 
in  the  eye,"  that  tendency  to  mind-reading,  which 
paralyzed  will  and  speech.  No,  if  successful  retribu- 
tion was  to  descend  upon  the  soul  of  Wilhelmina  it 
could  not  be  achieved  by  means  of  a  spoken  inter- 
view. 

A  pencil  lying  on  the  floor  near  the  stove 
caught  Genevieve's  eye  and  offered  a  solution  to  the 
situation.  She  picked  it  up  cautiously  and  tiptoed 
out  of  the  room.  On  the  hall  rack  lay  a  tablet  of 
Wilhelmina's.  In  a  moment  Genevieve  was 
crouched  on  the  bottom  stair,  biting  the  end  of  her 
pencil  and  frowning  at  the  sheet  in  front  of  her. 
Penmanship,  orthography,  and  composition  had 
always  been  reefs  ahead  for  Genevieve.  What  was 
she  to'say  ?  Here  was  Wilhelmina  caught  red-handed 
indulging  in  rank  sentimentalism.  Should  it  be  de- 
rision, ridicule?  Genevieve  did  not  feel  that  she 
could  do  justice  to  the  situation  in  such  vein;  that 
[24] 


THE  ROUTING  OF  A  MIND-READER 

was  Wilhelmina's  field.  She  would  be  magnani- 
mous— that  would  hurt  worse.  Inspired  by  the 
thought,  her  pencil  squeaked  diligently  across  the 
paper. 

"Dear  Willy  —  I  borrowed  the  piece  from  Hop 
Lee's  paper  to  show  to  the  Dennison  twins" — 
that  was  a  good  beginning;  the  thought  that  the 
Dennison  twins  were  to  share  in  her  day-dream 
would  be  gall  and  wormwood  to  Wilhelmina — "be- 
sides I  was  afraid  Aunt  Louisa  might  come  in  and 
find  it  and  scold  you."  Genevieve  chuckled  raptur- 
ously. "I  didn't  take  the  him  book.  I  thought 
maybe  you  wern't  through  lerning  it.  Here  is  an 
orange.  It's  sweet  and  won't  hurt  your  face.  It 
must  hurt  terrible ;  you  look  awful  when  you're 
asleep."  She  hesitated  long  over  the  closing,  then 
finally  ended,  "Your  affecternate  •  sister,  Johnny." 

From  the  pocket  of  her  apron  she  produced  with 
difficulty  the  fat  orange  recently  bestowed  upon  her 
by  the  mother  of  the  Dennisons,  pinned  her  note  to 
it  by  jabbing  a  hat-pin  deep  into  its  side,  and  tip- 
toed back  into  the  sitting-room.  For  once  luck  was 
with  her;  Wilhelmina  still  breathed  heavily.  With 
shaking  fingers  and  averted  eyes,  she  laid  the  orange 
upon  the  broad  arm  of  her  sister's  chair.  The  face 
enclosed  within  the  white  bandage  had  all  at  once 
assumed  a  most  terrifying  aspect.  Panic-stricken, 
she  caught  up  the  account  of  the  heroine  of  the 
Bonny  Belle  and  slid  from  the  room.  Once  outside 
the  door,  a  whoop  of  derision  escaped  from  her  with 
vigor.  She  had  checkmated  the  mind-reader,  and  her 
inmost  thoughts  were  still  her  own. 
[25] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

By  IVA  MYRTLE  MILLER 

E  ladies'  waiting-room  of  the  big  depart- 
ment  store  was  crowded.  Outside  a  hot  sun 
drew  a  blistering  light  from  cemented  walks 
and  streets,  but  here  it  was  quite  cool,  though  not 
quiet.  A  little  woman  in  severe  gray  drew  herself 
slowly  up  the  few  steps  that  elevated  the  room  from  the 
floor  below.  She  dropped  into  the  first  cushioned  seat 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment 
to  shut  out  the  glare  of  the  street  that  still  burned 
them.  She  was  tired  and  warm,  and  the  heat  had 
flushed  her  face  unnaturally. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again  she  met  the 
steady  gaze  of  a  baby  that  sat  opposite  to  her;  she 
smiled  at  its  blankly  serious  stare,  and  it  smiled  in 
return.  Then  her  eyes  traveled  above  the  baby's 
face  to  that  of  the  mother  holding  it — a  young  face, 
powdered  and  rouged  and  hard.  She  sighed  and 
looked  again  at  the  baby  in  pity,  but  it  smiled  as 
before,  unknowing  and  happy. 

There  were  other  people  to  watch  and  to  think 
about,  and  in  this  easy  relaxation  she  was  letting 
care  slip  slowly  from  her.  Yet  she  marveled  at  how 
few  faces  she  could  find  whose  expression  pleased 
and  satisfied.  The  women  in  silks  and  expensive 
gowns  looked  restless,  or,  at  best,  dully  satisfied 
with  life ;  those  on  whom  poverty  had  left  its  mark 
were  careworn  and  prematurely  aged.  She  herself 
belonged  to  this  latter  class,  she  remembered  sud- 
[26] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

denly,  and  smiled.  After  all,  it  was  better  to  be 
worn  with  cares  than  to  be  dully  satisfied  with  life. 

She  must  go  back  to  those  cares  soon  now;  she 
might  rest  only  a  little  longer.  The  children  would 
want  her,  and  Harold  would  need  her  smile  when  he 
came  home  tired  and  discouraged,  as  usual.  It 
seemed  so  very  long  ago  since  business  had  gone 
well,  and  they  had  been  happy  in  their  simple  way, 
that  she  wondered  how  much  longer  she  could  be 
brave,  and  pretend  that  it  did  not  matter  if  the  big 
combine  choked  out  the  little  business  and  drove 
Harold  to  the  wall.  These  troubles  that  had 
pressed  around  her  of  late  had  been  so  dark  and 
discouraging  and  insistent  that  the  waiting-room, 
with  its  motley  crowd,  was  a  positive  relief — a  pleas- 
ure even.  She  leaned  back  into  the  depths  of  her 
chair  to  rest  a  little  longer,  and  let  her  eyes  drift 
down  into  the  store  itself.  She  saw  a  woman  and 
a  man  approach  the  steps.  The  woman's  back  was 
turned,  but  she  caught  the  man's  words  distinctly : 

"No,  Mrs.  Brunton,  to  be  perfectly  frank,  there 
is  no  hope.  We  held  a  long  consultation ;  all  the 
best  doctors  were  there,  and  the  unanimous  decision 
was  that  there  is  no  hope ;  his  deformity  will  be 
slight,  but  he  never  can  be  strong.  Yet  he  is  such 
a  dreamy  lad  that  perhaps  he  won't  miss  physical 
strength  very  much.  At  least,  you  should  be  thankful 
that  you  have  unlimited  means  to  make  his  cramped 
life  a  pleasure." 

The  man  tipped  his  hat  and  turned  away.  The 
woman  climbed  the  stairs,  slowly,  thoughtfully. 
She  found  a  seat  in  a  dark  corner  and  sat  down 
[27] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

mechanically.  All  the  women  in  the  crowded 
room  were  watching  her,  but  she  did  not  know  it. 
She  was  the  sort  of  woman  who  attracts  notice  un- 
consciously, by  the  calmness  of  her  poise  and  the 
greatness  of  her  simplicity. 

At  first,  to  the  woman  in  gray,  she  seemed  only 
a  specimen  of  that  other  life — the  life  of  ease.  But 
this  woman,  too,  had  trouble.  She  caught  it  in  the 
doctor's  words  and  in  the  face  of  the  woman  herself. 
And  so  trouble  pushed  its  insistent  way  into  the 
heart  of  wealth  as  well  as  of  poverty !  Instantly 
her  wide  sympathy  reached  out  and  took  a  direct 
interest  in  the  woman.  She  looked  searchingly  at 
her  face  for  a  time,  and  then  a  half  incredulous 
wonder  came  over  her.  "Margaret!"  She  caught 
her  breath  quickly,  and  started  to  rise.  Then  she 
sat  down  again,  held  back  by  the  self-absorption  of 
the  other  woman,  and  by  the  sudden  realization  of 
her  own  plain  dress  and  the  cheap  cotton  of  her 
gloves.  Should  she  slip  away,  off  into  the  big 
crowd  of  the  store?  Her  shrinking  pride  urged  it, 
but  all  the  best  of  her  begged  for  a  meeting  with 
Margaret.  They  had  roomed  together  at  college — 
she  and  Margaret — and  they  had  not  seen  one 
another  for  years.  Even  the  letter  writing  had  ceased, 
and  each  had  drifted  her  way.  Yet  the  heart  of  the 
friendship  lay  waiting  to  quiver  again  with  its  old- 
time  warmth.  That  she  knew,  and  longed  for  the 
great  gladness  and  strength  it  would  bring  her; 
for  Margaret  had  done  much  to  make  her  what  she 
was.  It  was  Margaret  who  had  led  her  away  from 
foolish  sensitiveness  and  prejudice;  who  had  shown 
[28] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

her  the  great  delight  in  human  sympathy.  She 
herself  had  been  the  younger  and  more  strikingly 
feminine  of  the  two,  and  Margaret  had  led  her  up 
to  much  of  her  own  wide  generosity  of  thought  and 
bigness  of  heart. 

She  longed  to  renew  that  friendship  now,  just 
when  she  needed  strength  and  courage  most.  But 
suppose  Margaret  had  changed?  Perhaps  the 
years,  with  their  evident  prosperity,  had  tampered 
with  her.  Perhaps  she  would  not  wish  to  renew 
their  friendship  here  in  public.  Instantly  she  knew 
she  had  done  Margaret  a  great  injustice  in  permit- 
ting the  thought.  Margaret  was  above  such  petti- 
ness, infinitely  above  it.  With  the  strength  of  this 
knowledge,  she  walked  quickly  over  to  where  the 
woman  sat  with  her  head  bowed  in  her  hands. 

"Margaret!"  The  call  was  timid,  low-voiced. 
The  woman  raised  her  head  slowly,  half  dazed  by 
her  thoughts.  Then  a  flush  of  real  surprise  and 
happiness  came  over  her  face. 

"Jean  !   Jean  Monroe !    After  all  these  years  !" 

They  kissed  each  other  affectionately,  unabashed 
by  the  comments  they  excited. 

"You've  been  living  in  the  city,  too,  and  we've 
never  met!" 

They  sat  down  and  talked  a  long  time,  until  each 
remembered  the  duties  that  called  her  home. 

"But  we  must  see  each  other  often,  Jean,  and  get 
acquainted  with  these  husbands  and  children  we've 
acquired.  Perhaps,  just  to  set  the  ball  rolling,  we 
might  drop  in  some  evening.  Let's  see;  would 
Friday  evening  suit?  Robert  always  saves  Friday 
[29] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

night  for  me,  and  I  can  depend  on  him  then.  If  you 
prefer  some  other  time,  Jean,  don't  hesitate  to  say  so." 

Jean  pondered  a  moment.  She  was  wondering 
about  Harold  and  company.  It  had  been  so  long 
since  they  had  had  company ;  they  had  been  fighting 
out  their  battles  alone.  He  had  been  so  nervous  and 
overwrought  of  late,  it  might  upset  him.  But  no, 
it  would  do  him  good  just  to  see  Margaret,  and,  be- 
sides, the  longing  for  the  old  friendship  was  too 
strong  with  her  to  be  denied. 

"Certainly,  Margaret,  we  shall  be  home  Friday 
night,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  really  visit  with  you. 
Come  early  and  make  the  evening  long." 

They  passed  out  together  and  waited  at  the  cor- 
ner for  cars. 

"Oh,  my  address,  Margaret!  I  almost  forgot: 
654  Oak ;  the  Vernon  cars  will  take  you  out." 

Her  voice  choked  in  the  saying.  Working  peo- 
ple, with  calloused  hands  and  strained  faces,  crowded 
the  Vernon  cars.  Out  Margaret's  way,  silk  rustled 
in  the  cars,  and  bland-faced  men  smiled  placidly 
over  the  day's  success. 

A  Vernon  car  stopped  on  the  corner,  and  she 
stepped  on.  She  took  a  seat  outside  and  let  the 
wind  fan  her  flushed  cheeks.  It  was  good  to  see 
Margaret  and  to  find  her  the  same.  She  smiled 
with  the  new  courage  the  meeting  had  given  her. 

She  was  startled  when  the  car  stopped  at  her  cor- 
ner; the  ride  had  seemed  shorter  than  usual.  But 
the  street  oppressed  her  with  its  dull  uniformity ; 
the  cottages  were  all  so  much  alike,  and  each  yard 
held  its  due  apportionment  of  high-voiced  children. 
[301 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

Baby  carriages  stood  in  cool  spots  on  the  grass,  and 
mud  pies  were  being  baked  in  full  glory  on  the  walks. 
How  different  from  Margaret's  proper  and  reserved 
avenue !  To  be  sure,  Margaret  had  not  mentioned 
where  she  lived,  but  intuitively  she  knew  that  there 
baby  carriages  and  children  were  relegated  to  more 
private  playing  grounds.  She  sighed,  and  the  lines 
about  her  mouth  deepened,  but  not  for  long.  The 
four-year-old  boy  in  the  last  yard  had  spied  her,  and 
came  running  at  her  like  a  half-grown  bear. 

"Mower's  back !  "  he  shouted  to  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood. She  stooped  to  kiss  him,  and  he  clung 
about  her  neck  in  a  long  embrace.  Then  he  led  her 
in  triumph  to  the  house. 

It  was  cool  and  pleasant  in  the  little  front  room. 
The  girls  had  pulled  down  the  blinds  and  had  set 
things  in  order.  The  bouquet  of  violets  sent  out  an 
enticingly  mild  perfume.  She  dropped  into  a  chair 
to  rest  from  the  heat,  while  the  boy  peeped  among 
the  packages  for  eatables. 

"Nothing  today,  son,"  she  smiled  at  him.  "The 
money  all  ran  out  before  time."  She  toyed  with 
his  curls  and  tried  to  smile  away  the  look  of  dis- 
appointment on  his  face.  "You  see,  your  candy 
came  last  time,  but  the  girls  had  to  have  some 
things  this  time,  and  there  wasn't  any  money  left. 
Next  time,  maybe,"  and  she  stooped  to  kiss  his 
pouted  lips.  He  pulled  himself  up  to  her  lap  and 
nestled  his  head  on  her  shoulder. 

She  wondered  how  old  Margaret's  boy  was,  and 
whether  his  hair  was  so  soft  and  curly  and  delight- 
ful to  toy  with.  And  Margaret's  husband,  the  man 
[31] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

who  gave  her  ease  and  comfort;  would  he  take 
kindly  to  this  tiny  house?  She  glanced  uneasily 
about  the  room ;  it  was  small  and  decidedly  shabby. 
The  big  rocking-chair  in  the  corner  was  beginning  to 
show  very  plainly  the  rough  usage  it  had  had  at  the 
hands  of  the  boy.  Perhaps  she  should  not  have  al- 
lowed him  to  use  it  as  a  rocking-horse.  Then  his 
hold  tightened  about  her  neck,  and  she  was  sud- 
denly glad  to  see  all  the  marks  and  scars  the  chair 
contained.  He  had  never  had  a  real  rocking-horse ; 
business  had  been  too  depressing  of  late  years,  but 
he  had  never  felt  the  lack  of  one,  thanks  to  the  old 
scarred  chair.  So  her  thoughts  went  hurrying  on 
until  a  dragging  step  sounded  on  the  porch,  and 
reminded  her  of  other  things  near  at  hand. 

Friday  night,  as  she  lighted  the  lamp  and  placed 
it  on  the  parlor  table,  little  thrills  of  anxiety  passed 
over  her.  The  room  looked  as  nice  as  it  could 
look, — there  was  satisfaction  in  that ;  but  it  was  all 
so  shabby — how  she  hated  the  word !  And  yet 
every  day  it  was  coming  to  impress  itself  upon  her 
more  strongly.  It  would  not  matter  so  much  for 
Margaret,  but  Margaret's  husband ! 

"Did  you  say  you  did  not  even  know  his  name, 
Jean?" 

"Yes,  Harold;  wasn't  it  foolish  of  us?  We  were 
just  two  girls  again,  and  forgot  everything  but  how 
happy  we  were  to  meet;  but  then  names  make  little 
difference  after  all." 

"I'm  glad  they  are  coming,  Jean ;  it  makes  you 
look  younger.      I'm  afraid  we  haven't  done  enough 
to  keep  our  minds  away  from  worries,  but  — " 
[32] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

"Perhaps  we  may  change  a  little,  now  that  Mar- 
garet has  appeared  again ;  I  believe  it  will  do  us  both 
good.  You  are  looking  better,  too,  and  those  lines 
I  dread  to  see  are  not  so  deep  tonight,  Harold." 
She  touched  his  arm  affectionately,  and  he  stooped  to 
kiss  her. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  hard  on  you,  Jean,  to  bring  your 
old  friend  to  a  home  like  this ;  it's  so  shabby.  And 
you  were  used  to  such  different  things  once.  It  is 
that  which  is  making  me  nervous  and  irritable  of 
late;  everything  seems  to  be  slipping  away,  and 
there  is  no  getting  another  hold.  These  trusts  and 
combines  — " 

"Hush,  Harold !  Let's  not  bring  up  business 
now ;  let's  forget  everything  but  pleasant  and  happy 
things,  tonight." 

"Yes,  Jean ;  but  the  boys  said  today  that  Brunton 
was  around  when  I  was  gone.  He's  the  head  of 
the  combine  now.  It's  probably  the  last  thrust; 
they  mean  to  kill  us." 

"Whom  did  you  say?    Not  Brunton!" 

"Yes,  Brunton ;  he's  absolutely  unscrupulous,  and 
eats  out  the  smaller  men  without  any  more  com- 
punction than  a  dog." 

The  woman  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady 
herself.  That  name !  where  had  she  heard  it  ?  Sud- 
denly the  whole  scene  in  the  waiting-room  came 
before  her — Margaret  and  the  doctor!  She  heard 
again  the  words  of  the  man :  "No,  Mrs.  Brunton, 
there  is  no  hope."  So  then  it  was  Margaret's  hus- 
band who  — 

Steps  sounded  on  the  porch,  and  she  sought  to 
[33] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

collect  herself.  "Harold,"  she  whispered  hoarsely, 
"Harold,  let's  forget  business  tonight,  and  be  brave ; 
even  prejudices  — " 

The  bell  rang  and  she  hastened  to  the  door.  There 
was  a  rustle  of  silk  as  Margaret  stepped  in.  That 
rustle  had  been  so  long  unfamiliar  to  the  little  house 
that  to  the  overwrought  woman  at  the  door  it 
seemed  a  menace ;  the  beginning  of  the  dividing 
line. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  found  the  place.  It's  a  little  out 
of  the  way ;  I  was  afraid  you  might  have  trouble." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  Jean ;  we  .have  had  a  pleasant  ride. 
And  this  is  Robert,  Jean ;  I've  been  telling  him  of  us 
as  we  used  to  be." 

"And  this  is  Harold,  Margaret."  They  shook 
hands. 

"This  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Kington,  Mr. — ,"  she 
looked  appealingly  at  Margaret.  "You  haven't  told 
me  his  name." 

The  men  smiled,  and  were  already  shaking  hands. 

"Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Kington ;  my  name's 
Brunton ;  Margaret  forgot  I  existed,  I  guess,  when 
she  met  your  wife.  After  all,  we  husbands  are 
only  property,  I  suppose,  when  two  women  meet 
after  so  long  a  time."  He  laughed  heartily,  and 
turned  to  help  Margaret  off  with  her  wraps. 

A  flush  had  come  over  the  other  man's  face,  then 
a  pallor,  and  he  stood  helpless  in  the  doorway.  No 
one  noticed  it  but  his  wife,  and  her  nerves  were 
strung  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  hardly  knew  what 
she  said  or  did.  The  guests,  entirely  unconscious 
of  the  constraint,  seemed  very  much  at  home. 
[34] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

"What  beautiful  violets,  Jean!  Do  you  grow 
them  ?  But  then  I  know  you  couldn't  possibly  buy 
such  perfect  ones."  She  went  to  bury  her  face  in 
their  fragrance.  It  was  like  Margaret,  to  call 
attention  to  the  only  beautiful  thing  in  the  whole 
room ;  it  made  everybody  more  comfortable. 

"The  girls  take  care  of  them;  they  are  the  pets 
of  the  family.  The  girls  will  be  in  to  meet  you 
soon;  they  are  very  anxious  to  see  you." 

The  men  had  entered  by  this  time,  and  the  con- 
trast between  them  showed  all  the  more  plainly  in 
the  narrow  light  of  the  room.  The  one  stooped  and 
thin,  with  sallow  face  and  eyes  deep-set  and  rest- 
less ;  the  other  a  trifle  too  heavy,  perhaps,  but  with 
an  easy,  commanding  carriage,  which  belied  his 
weight ;  a  clean-cut,  capable  face,  laughing  eyes,  and 
a  chin  too  pronounced. 

"Robert,  do  you  see  these  beautiful  violets?  Jean 
says  her  daughters  grow  them;  I  wish  we  could 
have  some." 

"She  would  have  the  whole  place  covered  with 
flowers,  if  I'd  let  her,"  he  laughed ;  "I  believe  she'd 
live  in  a  hot-house  if  I  could  stand  the  pressure." 

Just  then  the  door  to  the  next  room  creaked,  and 
a  curly  head  peeped  through. 

"Yes,  son,  come  in  and  bring  the  girls.  It's  the 
boy,"  she  smiled,  as  the  head  disappeared  again. 
"His  curiosity  bump  is  large."  And  she  went  to 
bring  him  in.  He  came  dragging  his  feet,  his  head 
held  low  in  bashful  boyish  fashion.  But  underneath 
the  bashfulness  the  young  spirits  were  ready  to 
break  out  at  the  least  provocation.  The  man  with 
[35] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

the  laughing  eyes  saw  this,  and  purposely  led  him 
out.  Soon  they  had  entered  into  an  animated  talk, 
the  boy  having  met  a  kindred  spirit  and  the  man 
enjoying  in  the  boy  what  his  own  son  did  not  pos- 
sess— the  exuberance  and  health  of  childhood.  He 
was  thinking  how  he  would  give  all  he  owned  to  see 
the  lines  in  young  Robert's  face  relax  in  such  child- 
ish glee,  and  to  see  in  him  such  strength  and  vigor. 
The  girls  had  come  in,  and  were  becoming 
acquainted  with  Margaret.  A  pleasant  buzz  of  real 
animation  filled  the  room — the  guests  were  enjoying 
themselves.  But  to  the  woman  who  sat  near  and 
pretended  to  enter  into  the  conversation,  it  seemed 
like  a  real  nightmare.  Harold  had  retreated  into  a 
far  corner  where  the  deepest  shadows  fell.  She 
saw  him  drumming  restlessly  with  his  hands  on 
the  chair;  then  he  folded  his  arms,  trying  to  keep 
control  of  himself.  "How  long  can  he  keep  up?" 
she  muttered  to  herself.  "The  breakdown  is  nearer 
than  I  thought;  will  it  be  nervous  prostration,  or 
what?"  All  the  lines  of  care  and  worry  in  his  face 
were  deepened  and  accentuated  by  the  nervous 
struggle  to  keep  hold  of  himself.  He  was  watching 
the  other  man  as  he  played  with  the  boy,  and  she 
knew  that  was  cutting  him,  too.  He  had  never 
played  like  that  with  the  boy;  he  had  never  known 
how.  Possibly  he  had  not  realized  it  until,  suddenly, 
he  saw  this  man,  who  was  usurping  business  and  life 
itself,  enter  into  closer  companionship  with  his  son 
than  he  had  done  himself.  It  was  a  terrible  tragedy  to 
the  woman  who  sat  watching,  sympathizing,  but 
unable  to  help. 

[36] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

If  he  would  only  control  himself  until  the  evening 
was  over,  that  was  all  she  could  ask.  Her  heart 
cried  out  in  pity  for  him — this  overwrought,  sen- 
sitive man,  who  had  always  taken  the  defensive 
against  the  world,  and  had  failed.  She  could  not 
help  admiring  the  other  man,  and  the  healthy  atti- 
tude he  took  toward  life,  but  she  wondered  if  he 
even  guessed  the  price  of  his  success. 

Suddenly,  above  the  other  noise  of  the  talk  near 
her,  she  caught  a  story  that  the  boy  was  telling: 
"Cars?  Really,  truly,  play-cars?  Oh,  I  wish  I 
could  have  some!  May  be,  no,  I  guess  Mower 
would  not  let  me.  Mower  always  says  there  isn't 
money.  Do  you  have  money?  I  guess  somebody 
awful  must  steal  my  papa's  money,  'cause  he  works 
all  the  time,  and  Mower  says  there  isn't  any  money. 
When  I  get  big,  I'm  going  to  have  lots  of  money 
and  cars,  and  rocking-horses.  Does  your  little  boy 
have  rocking-horses  ?  Mower  lets  me  use  that  chair 
for  one.  It's  pretty  good,  specially  when  I  tie 
strings  on  for  a  tail." 

The  woman  stirred  uneasily.  Her  husband  had 
heard,  too,  and  she  felt  rather  than  saw  the  sensitive 
flush  cross  his  face.  It  was  as  if  some  one  had 
struck  him  a  blow,  and  he  was  powerless  to  resist. 
She  crossed  over  to  the  boy. 

"Come,  son,  it's  far  past  bed-time.  Say  good- 
night and  come  with  mother. 

"Mower,  please,  not  now!     It's  the  best  time 

ever,"  and  he  clung  to  the  man  for  protection.     She 

could  have  cried  out  with  the  pain  it  gave  her  to 

take  this  little  pleasure  away  from  the  boy,  but 

[37] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

over  in  the  corner  the  face  of  the  man  was  drawn 
tense  with  the  nervous  struggle,  and  something  had 
to  be  done  to  relieve  it. 

"Son !"  He  crawled  down,  and  his  face  was 
quivering,  ready  to  cry. 

"Never  mind,"  the  man  leaned  over  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  "Never  mind,  I'll  send  a  Santa 
Claus  around  tomorrow  with  those  cars ;  so  sleep 
tight  and  dream  about  them." 

"That's  a  fine  boy  of  yours."  He  leaned  toward 
the  man  in  the  shadow.  "Our  boy  is  an  invalid  and 
sits  dreaming  all  the  time.  You  can't  rouse  him 
to  a  normal  interest  in  anything.  It's  the  best 
blessing  on  earth  to  have  such  a  boy  as  yours.  It's 
health,  after  all,  that  brings  happiness  to  this 
world." 

"Robert,  I  really  think  that  we  must  be  going; 
it's  getting  late." 

"So  it  is,"  the  man  acknowledged.  "You've  made 
arrangements  for  them  to  visit  us  soon,  haven't  you, 
Margaret?  Why  not  to  dinner  next  week?" 

"Yes,  we  were  planning  it,  the  girls  and  I,  while 
Jean  was  gone  with  the  boy.  Would  Wednesday 
evening  suit  you  ?  I  am  so  anxious  to  have  a  long 
talk  with  you,  Jean." 

"I  should  enjoy  it,  too,  very  much,  but  — " 

"Now,  don't  make  any  excuses,  for  you  just  must 
come,  and  besides,  the  men  haven't  become  half 
acquainted.  Robert  was  so  much  engrossed  with 
the  boy.  He  rarely  gets  a  chance  to  enjoy  himself 
so  thoroughly ;  our  son  is  an  invalid.  You  can 
come,  Jean?" 

[38] 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

"Certainly,  they  must  come,"  the  man  volunteered. 
"Mr.  Kington  and  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  talk. 
Margaret  forbids  business  discussion  near  her.  She 
says  we  men  are  inhuman  when  it  comes  to 
business."  He  laughed.  "Perhaps  we  are,  who 
knows?  But  it's  necessary  these  days.  You're  in 
business,  Mr.  Kington;  or  a  professional  man?  No? 
Good !  Business  has  a  snap  the  professions  don't 
have.  It  keeps  a  man  on  the  fight." 

The  woman  listened  to  these  words  in  pained 
amazement.  Then  she  glanced  from  the  expectant 
faces  of  the  girls  to  the  tense  face  of  the  man.  Her 
decision  was  made  on  the  instant. 

"No,  Margaret,  I'm  afraid  not.  Harold's  cold  is 
bad,  and  we  are  afraid  of  venturing  out  in  the 
evening." 

"But  the  nights  are  mild  now,  Jean." 

"No,  Margaret;"  and  she  drew  her  to  one  side. 
The  lines  in  her  face  stood  out  boldly,  almost 
defiantly.  The  words  came  slowly  but  without 
hesitation ;  yet  she  moistened  her  lips  as  if  to  make 
speech  possible.  "Don't  think  I'm  not  appreciating 
your  invitation,  Margaret ;  I  should  like  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  come,  but  Harold,  you  can  see  as  well 
as  I,  is  unfit  for  company;  he's  a  sick  man,  Mar- 
garet." 

"I  see,  Jean."  She  pressed  her  hand  sympatheti- 
cally. "He  may  be  better  soon,  and  then  you  shall 
come.  Our  boy  is  an  invalid,  too,  and  will  be  all  his 
life.  The  years  change  us,  Jean ;  they  bring  us 
trouble,  but  they  give  us  strength." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  the  guests  were  gone. 
[39] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"Mother,"  the  girls  exclaimed  when  the  door  was 
closed,  "you  didn't  ask  them  to  come  again !" 

"No,  dear,  I  didn't  ask  them  to  come  again." 
Her  voice  sounded  hollow  and  dead,  but  she  turned 
with  her  usual  slow  smile  to  the  man  in  the 
shadow. 


[40] 


THE    ETERNAL    GIRL 

By  BRUCE  ORMSBY  BLIVEN 

Persons  in  the  Play. 
ST.  PETER. 
EWART  GILBERT. 
JACK  BERNARD. 
BERNICE  SMYTH. 
MRS.  SMYTH. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Heaven — the  Heaven  of  our 
grandfathers — just  within  the  pearly  gates.  It  is  a 
large,  sparsely  furnished  room,  the  walls  of  which 
are  lined  with  card  catalogue  cases;  at  the  rear 
center  are  double,  swinging  doors,  with  panels  of 
frosted  glass,  on  which  the  word  "Entrance"  is 
printed  in  reverse.  At  the  left  there  is  a  door  with 
red  curtains  before  it.  A  red  transparency  over 
it  reads  "Exit."  There  is  a  second  door  at  the 
right.  At  the  rear,  left,  there  is  a  fiat-topped  desk, 
with  a  telephone  and  numerous  scattered  papers 
upon  it.  Behind  it,  to  the  left,  there  is  a  chair; 
another  cliair  is  drawn  up  to  the  desk,  facing  it  from 
down  stage. 

The  time  is  the  present.  On  earth  it  would  probably 
be  about  four  o'clock  of  a  summer  afternoon. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  ST.  PETER  is  seated  at  the  desk, 
facing  toward  the  entrance,  and  busied  with  the 
papers  on  the  desk.  He  is  a  pleasant,  rather  bald- 
headed  old  gentleman,  with  a  neat,  long  white 
beard.  He  wears  a  monk's  robe,  with  the  cowl 
[41] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

thrown  back  over  his  shoulders,  and  is  slow  and 
careful  in  his  movements.  He  is  apparently  engaged 
in  cleaning  up  his  desk,  for  he  picks  up  paper  after 
paper,  and  after  glancing  at  each,  crumples  it 
between  his  hands  and  drops  it  on  the  floor,  where 
a  little  heap  has  already  accumulated. 

ST.  PETER. 

(To  himself.}  I  really  ought  to  keep  this  place 
picked  up  a  little  more.  It's  getting  into  a  disgraceful 
state.  Things  ought  to  be  kept  better,  because  this 
is  the  first  place  any  one  sees,  and  we  should  try  to 
make  a  good  first  impression.  I  would  hate  to  have 
any  one  come  to  Heaven  and  be  disappointed  in  it. 
(Reads  from  paper).  "Recording  angel — to  carbon 
paper  and  stenographer's  fee — $11.40."  (Lays  paper 
aside).  I  guess  I'll  have  to  get  one  of  the  cherubim 
to  clean  up  a  little  here  every  morning.  (He  rises, 
gathers  the  papers  from  the  floor  in  his  arms,  goes 
over  to  the  left  and  draws  back  the  curtain  before  the 
door  marked  "Exit."  He  holds  to  the  lintel  with 
evident  care,  leans  over,  and  looks  down.  Then  he 
holds  out  the  papers  and  drops  them,  apparently  fol- 
lowing them  with  his  eyes  as  they  fall  a  long  distance). 
There,  those  papers  are  out  of  my  way  at  any  rate. 
What  would  I  do  with  my  waste  paper,  if  I  didn't 
have  this  shaft  to  the  nether  regions?  (Telephone  bell 
rings.  He  turns  and  hurries  back  to  the  desk,  picking 
up  the  instrument  and  speaking  into  it).  Hello?  Yes. 
Yes.  Is  that  so  ?  Automobile  again,  is  it  ?  I  thought 
so.  Four?  Did  you  get  the  names ?  (A  pause.)  Yes, 
send  them  right  up.  (He  puts  down  the  telephone, 
[42] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

seats  himself  at  the  desk,  and  begins  writing.  MRS. 
SMYTH  enters  at  the  rear,  -with  a  dazed,  bewildered  air, 
and  stops  at  the  other  side  of  the  desk.  She  is  an 
aristocratic  and  somewhat  portly  society  leader  of  the 
familiar  marriage-broker  type;  but  the  situation  in 
which  she  finds  herself  has  broken  down  her  customary 
guard  of  repose.) 

MRS.  SMYTH. 
Where  am  I? 

ST.  PETER. 

(Looking  up.)  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  This  is  Mrs. 
Smyth,  isn't  it?  (He  rises,  and  offers  her  the  second 
chair,  but  she  does  not  see  it.) 

MRS.  SMYTH. 
Where  is  my  daughter? 

ST.  PETER. 

She  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  I  think.  (Slightly 
embarrassed.)  This — this  is  Heaven,  you  know. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Ah,  indeed  ?  Very  charming  pla —  Heaven  ?  What ! 
Do  you  mean  that  I'm  dead?  Dead?  And  in 
Heaven  ? 

ST.  PETER. 

(Wearily.)  I  assure  you,  you  are  dead.  You  were 
killed  in  an  automobile  accident  half  an  hour  ago. 

[43] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR'  BOOK 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

(Sitting  down  abruptly.)  Well,  who  would  have 
thought  it !  I  never  expected — why,  I  must  be  dream- 
ing !  Dead !  And  where  is  my  daughter  ? 

ST.  PETER. 

(Patiently.)  She  will  be  here  soon,  I  expect.  She 
was  killed  at  the  same  time  that  you  were.  (He  reads 
from  a  paper  on  his  desk.)  "Killed — Mrs.  Smyth; 
daughter  Bernice ;  J.  Bernard ;  E.  Gilbert.  Automobile 
accident  J86o,R." 
f 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Killed !  To  think  of  Bernice  being  dead !  It  seems 
like  a  nightmare. 

ST.  PETER. 

I  assure  you  it  is  all  perfectly  regular  and  common, 
Mrs.  Smyth.  A  great  many  people  have  died  before 
this. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

I  suppose  it  must  be  all  right,  but  it  gave  me  such  a 
turn  at  first !  Why,  I  don't  feel  any  different ;  I  would 
never  have  known  it  had  happened  at  all  if  you  hadn't 
told  me.  Is  Bernice  coming,  did  you  say? 

ST.  PETER. 

Yes,  she  ought  to  be  here  any  minute.  That  is,  I  sup- 
pose  she   will   come   here.      (Embarrassed.)      Ah — 
what  sort  of  a  person  is  your  daughter? 
[44] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

She's  about  five  feet  four,  brown  haired,  had  one 
year  at  Vassar,  and  weighs — 

ST.  PETER. 

No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  what  sort  of  a 
character  did  she  have?  Was  she — was  she  a  good 
child? 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Oh,  of  course.  I  never  had  a  bit  of  trouble  with 
her.  Even  after  she  came  back  from  college  she  let 
me  do  whatever  I  liked. 

ST.  PETER. 

In  that  case  you  may  be  sure  she  will  come  here. 
However,  I  will  just  look  her  up  in  the  cards  to  make 
sure.  {He  turns  to  the  wall  behind  him  and  busies 
himself  with  a  card  catalogue.}  Smyth — Smyth — 
Bernice.  Character,  94.  Heart,  97.  Logic,  63. 
White  lies,  Vol.  Ai9  to  €24,  series  4091.  That's  all 
right.  She'll  get  here  safe  and  sound. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

It  will  be  such  a  relief  to  me  when  she  does;  you 
have  no  idea  of  the  amount  of  worry  a  daughter  is  to 
one,  Mr. — this  is  St.  Peter,  isn't  it?  (He  nods.) 
I  suppose  the  persons  bringing  her  are  to  be  trusted, 
aren't  they?  You  have  confidence  in  them? 

ST.  PETER. 
The  utmost. 

[45] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Then  it's  all  right,  I  suppose.  Now  that  that  is 
off  my  mind,  I  think  I  might  as  well  look  around 
a  little  and  see  if  there  are  any  of  my  friends  here. 
(She  rises  and  crosses  to  the  door  right.) 

ST.  PETER. 

(Hastily.)  Just  a  minute,  please!  There  are  a 
few  little  formalities  to  be  gone  through  with  first. 
An  examination,  you  know. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Oh,  that's  all  right.  Don't  bother  about  them  on 
my  account.  (Exit  right.) 

ST.  PETER. 

(Looking  after  her,  surprised.)  Well!  It  seems 
to  me  that  people  are  getting  rather  high-handed 
these  days.  They  take  my  breath  away.  Things  seem 
to  be  getting  too  swift  for  me,  anyhow.  I  don't  know 
what  the  world  is  coming  to.  However,  I  suppose 
I  might  as  well  put  her  down  as  entered  all  right. 
(He  sits  down  and  begins  to  write.  The  doors  at  the 
back  are  pushed  apart,  and  Miss  BERNICE  SMYTH 
thrusts  her  head  between  them.  She  is  a  good-looking 
young  lady  of  twenty-four,  not  after  Mr.  Gibson's 
large  bland  model,  but  with  a  rather  piquant  expres- 
sion, the  good  breeding  of  which  has  not  yet  degen- 
erated into  ennui.  She  is  dressed  for  automobiling, 
in  a  large  hat,  with  a  veil  over  it  and  a  loose  cloak. 
She  smiles  as  she  sees  ST.  PETER.) 

[46] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

BERNICE. 
(With  a  bubbling  laugh.)     Hello! 

ST.  PETER. 
Come  in.     (She  enters.) 

BERNICE. 
Is  my  mother  here,  please? 

ST.  PETER. 

(With  rare  intuition.)     She  was  a  moment  ago,  my 
child.     She  has  just  left. 

BERNICE. 
Well,  tell  me — this  is  Heaven,  isn't  it? 

ST.  PETER. 
Yes. 

BERNICE. 

And  we're  all  dead,  aren't  we?     Oh,  poor  Daddy! 
And  are  Jack  and  Ewart  dead,  too? 

ST.  PETER. 
Jack  and  Ewart? 

BERNICE. 
Yes,  they  were  in  the  auto  with  us. 

ST.  PETER. 
Yes,  they  were  both  killed. 

[47] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

BERNICE. 
And  will  they  come  here? 

ST.  PETER. 
Oh,  yes.     Now,  don't  you  want  to  see  your  mother  ? 

BERNICE. 
Oh,  I  almost  forgot !     Where  is  the  book  ? 

ST.  PETER. 

The  book?  What  book?  There  are  several  here, 
child.  (Briskly.}  Which  one  did  you  want? 

BERNICE. 

(Sitting  down.}  Oh,  the  book  that  tells  all  about 
what  sort  of  a  person  you  are — good  or  bad,  you 
know. 

ST.  PETER. 
I  see.    There  isn't  any  such  book,  I'm  afraid. 

BERNICE. 
(Disappointed.)    There  isn't? 

ST.  PETER. 

No — the  records  are  all  kept  in  these  card  indexes 
now. 

BERNICE. 

(Jumping  up.)  Are  they?  Oh,  let  me  see!  (She 
runs  around  behind  the  desk.  ST.  PETER  jumps  up 
and  waves  her  back.) 

[48] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

ST.  PETER. 

(Hastily.)  It  is  not  permitted — no  one  may  see 
them — please  sit  down. 

BERNICE. 

Oh,  but  I  only  want  to  see  two  of  them.  Can't  I 
see  just  two? 

ST.  PETER. 

I  can't  allow  you  to  see  them  at  all.  It  would  cost 
me  my  place. 

BERNICE. 

Well — you  read  them  out  loud  to  me,  then.  I  really 
must  see  them — it's  quite  important. 

ST.  PETER. 
What's  the  matter? 

BERNICE. 

(Engagingly.)  Come,  I'll  tell  you.  You  see,  Mr. 
Bernard  and  Mr.  Gilbert  are  both — are  both —  (She 
leans  over  and  whispers  in  his  ear.) 

ST.  PETER. 
(With  simulated  incredulity.)     Not  both  of  them? 

BERNICE. 

Both !  And  you  see,  the  trouble  is,  I  don't  know 
which  is  which. 


[49] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

ST.  PETER. 
You  don't  what? 

BERNICE. 

Well,  not  that,  of  course.  But  it's  very  important  to 
know  what  kind  of  a  person  a  man  is,  in  a  case  like 
that.  They  both  say  they're  good,  but  you  can't  tell 
anything  by  what  a  man  says,  can  you  ? 

ST.  PETER. 

Well,  you  can  tell  what  he  wants  you  to  think  he 
believes,  usually.  And  so  you  want  the  Heavenly 
records  to  tell  you  what  sort  of  characters  your  suitors 
have? 

BERNICE. 

Yes,  exactly.  You  see,  Jack  Bernard  is  a  good 
chum,  and  a  dandy  tennis  player,  and  all  that,  but  he 
doesn't  do  anything.  He's  just  rich.  But  Ewart 
Gilbert,  he's  a  poet,  and  he  wears  his  hair  long,  and 
he  talks  in  low,  intense  tones,  just  vibrant  with  feeling. 
He's  always  fearfully  wrought  up  over  something. 

ST.  PETER. 
Over  what? 

BERNICE. 

Well,  just  over  being  a  poet — it  makes  the  cold 
chills  run  down  my  spine. 

ST.  PETER. 
Does  he  write  poetry  ? 

[50] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

BERNICE. 

Oh,  yes.  He's  had  a  book  of  it  published  at  his 
own  expense. 

ST.  PETER. 
And  you  don't  know  which  young  man  you  like  best  ? 

BERNICE. 
No.     That's  why  I  want  to  see  the  record. 

ST.  PETER. 

And  do  you  think  you  will  proceed  to  fall  in  love 
with  the  best  one? 

BERNICE. 
Of  course. 

BERNICE. 

Well,  from  what  I've  seen  of  Eternity,  you  would 
be  more  likely  to  choose  the  other.  But  it's  no  use 
going  on  like  this.  No  one  is  ever  allowed  to  see 
those  cards. 

BERNICE. 

Well,  I  think  you  might  make —  (She  stops  suddenly, 
as  an  idea  strikes  her,  then  jumps  up  from  the  chair 
and  begins  to  take  off  her  veil.)  Oh,  I  know!-  I've 
got  a  perfectly  beautiful  idea,  Uncle  St.  Peter !  Aren't 
you  glad  ? 

ST.  PETER. 

Well,  I  don't  know.    That  depends  on  the  idea. 
[51] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

BERNICE. 

It's  as  simple  as  can  be.  When  people  come  here 
you  are  supposed  to  ask  them  questions,  aren't  you? 

ST.  PETER. 
Yes,  I  believe  so. 

BERNICE. 
Though  you  haven't  asked  me  any. 

ST.  PETER. 
(Plaintively.)     I  havn't  had  time  yet. 

BERNICE. 

Well,  all  I  want  is  just — it's  ever  so  easy — you  won't 
refuse,  will  you  ? 

ST.  PETER. 
(Gloomily.)     No,  I  probably  won't. 

BERNICE. 

When  Jack  and  Ewart  come  here,  I'll  just  take  your 
place.  I'll  put  on  your  bathrobe,  and  pull  down  the 
bonnet,  and  they'll  think  I'm  you.  I'll  ask  them  the 
questions  and  see  what  they  say,  and  then  I'll  know ! 

ST.  PETER. 
Nonsense !     They  would  know  you. 

BERNICE. 

No,  they  wouldn't.  Not  if  I  speak  in  a  deep,  bass 
voice,  like  this. 

[52] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

ST.  PETER. 

Well,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing.  Please,  my  dear  young  lady,  please  remem- 
ber where  you  are.  (She  looks  at  him  steadily,  and 
ostentatiously  gets  out  her  handkerchief.  He  views 
her  in  alarm.}  What  are  you  going  to  do? 

BERNICE. 

I'm  going  to  cry.  (She  begins  to  sob  behind  her 
handkerchief,  keeping  one  eye  on  him.} 

ST.  PETER. 

(Turning  and  walking  away.)  I'm  very  sorry  to 
disappoint  you,  but  it  would  be  as  much  as  my  position 
is  worth.  You  see,  it  would  be  making  a  precedent, 
and  we  couldn't  do  that.  (He  takes  off  his  robe, 
standing  in  a  Roman  toga,  and  offers  it  to  her.} 
Here! 

BERNICE. 
(Taking  off  her  automobile  veil.}     Oh,  thank  you! 

ST.  PETER. 

I'm  glad  there  weren't  any  women  like  you  in  my 
day. 

BERNICE. 

(Stopping  half  way  into  the  robe.}  Why,  there 
were  women  like  me  in  your  day.  There  always  have 
been ;  there  always  will  be.  Now !  what  are  we  going 
to  do  with  you? 

[53] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

ST.  PETER. 

(Sits  on  the  edge  of  his  desk  with  his  hands  folded.} 
I  don't  know. 

BERNICE. 

Oh — of  course!  (He  looks  around  in  alarm.) 
Here — put  on  my  coat.  (She  tries  to  force  his  arms 
into  the  sleeves.)  It's  too  small,  isn't  it?  Wait — I'll 
just  button  it  around  your  neck  and  let  it  hang. 
There!  Now  the  veil.  (She  drapes  it  around  his 
head.)  Now  the  hat. 

ST.  PETER. 

(Backing  away.)  Young  lady,  I  insist — I  must 
refuse  to  wear  that  hat.  I  look  ridiculous  enough  as 
it  is.  Do  anything  you  like — I  leave  you  in  charge ! 
{He  goes  out  to  the  right.  BERNICE  lays  the  hat  on 
the  chair.) 

BERNICE. 

I  hope  he  isn't  angry.  He  seemed  rather  put  out. 
(Arranging  robe.)  Do  I  look  like  him,  I  wonder? 
If  I  can  only — some  one's  coming!  (She  runs  around 
and  sits  in  ST.  PETER'S  place,  pretending  to  busy  herself 
with  the  papers  on  the  desk.  Enter  JACK  BERNARD 
and  EWART  GILBERT.  The  former  is  a  straightfor- 
ward, incisive  young  American,  sunburned  and  with 
close-cropped  hair;  the  latter  is  thin,  black-haired,  with 
a  sort  of  nervous  exaltation.  He  walks  as  though  he 
were  in  a  trance.) 

JACK. 

How  do  you  do?     This  is  Heaven,  isn't  it? 
[54] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

BERNICE. 
(Gruffly.)    Yes.    Did  you  wish  anything? 

JACK. 

Why,  yes — that  is,  no,  I  guess  not.  We  just 
dropped  in.  The  fact  is,  we  were  in  an  automobile 
accident. 

BERNICE. 
Yes,  I  should  think — so  I  imagined. 

JACK. 

{Indicating  GILBERT.)  Excuse  my  friend,  won't 
you?  He's  a  poet,  you  know;  he  feels  very  deeply, 
and  all  that. 

GILBERT. 

(To  himself.}  My  senses  are  reeling  in  a  bitter- 
sweet ecstasy.  I  hardly  know  if  I  am  alive  or  dead. 

JACK. 

I  wouldn't  let  that  bother  me — you're  dead.  (To 
BERNICE.)  Don't  we  have  to  register,  or  something? 

BERNICE. 

Why,  no,  I  didn't — I  mean,  I'll  ask  you  some  ques- 
tions first,  you  know. 

JACK. 

All  right.  Can  you  tell  me  whether  Miss  Smyth 
and  her  mother  have  arrived  here  yet? 

[55] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

GILBERT. 
(Eagerly.)     Yes — where  are  they? 

BERNICE. 

(Startled.)  Why,  I  don't  know.  What  sort  of 
people  are  they? 

GILBERT. 

Bernice  Smyth  is  a  star  from  the  sky — a  creature 
of  fire  and  moonshine  and  the  odor  of  violets — a  snow- 
flake  pulsing  with  heart-throbs  of  the  infinite. 
(BERNICE  nods  delightedly  and  turns  to  JACK.) 

JACK. 
They  are  rather  nice  people  in  society  in  New  York. 

BERNICE. 
(Disappointed.)     Oh. 

GILBERT. 

Shall  I  ever  see  her  again — see  her  delicate  mouth, 
her  luminous  brown  eyes — 

BERNICE. 
( Impulsively. )     No — hazel. 

JACK. 

What — you've  seen  her — she's  been  here!  (He 
pounces  on  her  hat,  lying  on  the  chair.)  Here's  her 
hat !  She's  been  here !  Where  is  she  ? 

BERNICE. 

(Nonplussed.)     Oh,  did  you  mean  her? 
[56] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

JACK. 

Yes,  of  course.  Bernice  Smyth.  Here's  her  hat — • 
I've  had  its  edge  in  my  face  too  often  not  to  know  it. 
Where  is  she  ? 

GILBERT. 
Yes — what  have  you  done  with  her? 

BERNICE. 

I  didn't  know  you  meant  her.  She's — well,  she's 
gone  away. 

GILBERT. 
Gone  where  ?    Let  us  away !     We  will  follow  her ! 

JACK. 
Where's  she  gone? 

BERNICE. 

(Suddenly  inspired.)  I  hardly  like  to  tell  you.  I 
didn't  know  she  was  a  friend  of  yours. 

JACK. 
Go  on. 

BERNICE. 

Well,  she's  gone — she's  gone  to  h h (des- 
perately) hell! 

GILBERT. 
What? 

JACK. 

To — to  hell?  (She  nods.  GILBERT  sinks  limply  into 
the  chair.) 

[57] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

GILBERT. 

(Mournfully.}     I  would  never  have  thought  it  of 
her. 

JACK. 
Why,  this  is  monstrous  !     This  is  ridiculous ! 

GILBERT. 

She  seemed  so  good  and  pure;  but  that's  always 
the  way. 

JACK. 

Somebody  will  have  to  pay  for  this,  if  it  isn't  a 
mistake.  (To  BERNICE.)  What  did  you  send  her 
there  for? 

BERNICE. 

Well,  I  heard  the  evidence  against  her,  and  there 
was  nothing  else  to  do. 

GILBERT. 
(Anxiously.}     Was  she  very  bad? 

BERNICE. 
Oh,  simply  dreadful ! 

GILBERT. 
(Eagerly.}     What  did  she  do? 

JACK. 

This  is  nonsense.     Bernice  Smyth  never  did  any- 
thing wrong  in  her  life,  and  you  know  it.     (BERNICE 
[58] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

claps  her  hands  silently,  then  puts  them  behind  her 
back  as  he  turns  to  her.)  I'm  going  to  go  and  see 
about  this.  Let's  get  this  examination  business  over 
with  right  away. 

BERNICE. 

Very  well.     (To  GILBERT.)     This  is  Mr.  Gilbert,  is 
it  not?    You're  a  poet,  aren't  you? 

JACK. 

(Hastily.}     See  here,  that  isn't  fair.    He  can't  help 
that,  can  he? 

BERNICE. 
I  will  question  you  separately,  if  you  don't  mind. 

JACK. 

Certainly.     (He  picks  up  the  chair,  carries  it  to  the 
extreme  left,  down-stage,  and  sits  down.) 

BERNICE. 

And  you  were  a  friend  of  this  Smyth  person,  Mr. 
Gilbert,  were  you  ? 

GILBERT. 

(Apologetically.)    Well,  yes,  in  a  way.    I  knew  her 
slightly. 

BERNICE. 
(Aside.)     Slightly! 

GILBERT. 

Of  course,  I  never  suspected  she  was  a  bad  character, 
then. 

[59] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

BERNICE. 
Oh,  didn't  you? 

GILBERT. 

No.  Though,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  always  did 
notice  that  she  was  not  just  exactly — not  quite — you 
understand  ? 

BERNICE. 

I  understand  you  perfectly,  Mr.  Gilbert.  But  I 
thought  that  you — that  you  aspired  for  the  young 
lady's  hand? 

GILBERT. 

Well — I  may  have,  in  a  joking  way.  I  was  never 
serious — she  was  too  stolid,  too  unemotional  for  a 
true  poet's  wife. 

BERNICE. 
Oh,  is  that  so  ? 

GILBERT. 

Yes.  She  had  only  one  qualification — quite  a  little 
money. 

BERNICE. 
I  see.     Thank  you. 

GILBERT. 
Are  you  through  with  me? 

BERNICE. 
Yes — I'm  through  with  you — I  think. 

GILBERT. 

Then  I'll  just  wait  for  Bernard  outside.  (He  goes 
out  through  the  door  at  the  right.) 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

JACK. 

Are  you  ready  for  me,  now?  (Aside.}  Here's 
where  I  make  my  bluff.  (He  crosses  to  desk.) 

BERNICE. 
You  are  Mr.  Jack  Bernard? 

JACK. 
Yes. 

BERNICE. 
Are  you  a  married  man,  Mr.  Bernard? 

JACK. 
Yes. 

BERNICE. 

What — married?  Why,  you  never — oh — a  married 
man !  I — 

JACK. 
What  is  it? 

BERNICE. 

I — I  thought  you  said  something  else.  (Takes  pen 
and  pretends  to  write.)  Married.  (Aside.)  I  have 
found  them  both  out !  (To  JACK.)  Where  does  your 
wife  live? 

JACK. 

(Apologetically.)  Well — I  have  two.  One  in 
Chicago,  and  one  in  Lacrosse,  Wisconsin.  I  beg 
pardon  ? 

BERNICE. 

Noth — nothing.     Why — why  that's  bigamy,  isn't  it? 
[61] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

JACK. 

Well,  yes,  it  is  in  the  United  States.  Some  places 
it's  only  hard  luck.  However,  I  was  really  not  to 
blame.  I  was  drunk  when  I  married  my  second  wife. 

BERNICE. 
(Dropping  her  pen.}     Drunk! 

JACK. 

Oh,  yes — I  am  a  confirmed  drunkard.  (Aside.) 
Isn't  he  satisfied  yet  that  I'm  a  bad  character?  I 
drink  opium,  too. 

BERNICE. 
Opium ! 

JACK. 

Yes— beastly  habit,  isn't  it?  I  took  to  it  after  I 
found  I  was  a  confirmed  kleptomaniac.  I  trust  all  this 
doesn't  bore  you? 

BERNICE. 

No,  I'm  finding  out  things  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
for  worlds. 

JACK. 

You  know — I  was  out  camping  in  the  Maine  woods 
last  year  with  a  friend  of  mine. 

BERNICE. 
Yes. 

JACK. 

And  we  got  into  a  discussion  one  night  about  the 
shape  of  a  person's  liver. 

[62] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

BERNICE. 
Yes. 

JACK. 

Well — I  came  in  drunk  that  night,  and  I  killed  my 
friend  and  cut  him  up  to  find  out. 

BERNICE. 

(Springing  up.)  Oh-h-h,  Jack  Bernard,  you — you 
beast ! 

JACK. 

Why,  Bernice !  It's  Bernice !  What  are  you  doing 
here? 

BERNICE. 

I'll  never  speak  to  you  again.  I'm  glad  I  found  you 
out  you — you  monster!  I  took  St.  Peter's  place  and 
dressed  up  in  his  clothes  just  to  see  what  sort  of  people 
you  and  Mr.  Gilbert  were,  and  now  I've  found  you 
out — a  man  with  two  wives"! 

JACK. 

What  nonsense !  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  be- 
lieved all  that,  do  you?  '  Why,  don't  you —  (Enter 
GILBERT,  dragging  ST.  PETER  by  the  arm.) 

GILBERT. 

Bernard !  There's  something  wrong  here.  I  found 
this  old  man  outside  in  Bernice's  coat. 

BERNICE. 

(Runs  across  the  stage  and  throws  herself  in  ST. 
PETER'S  arms.)     Oh,  Mr.  St.  Peter! 
[63] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

ST.  PETER. 
Bless  me ! 

GILBERT. 
Why,  there  she  is !     Bernice !     What's  all  this  ? 

BERNICE. 

St.  Peter,  he's  a  beast !  He's  killed  a  man,  and  he's 
got  a  wife — he's  got  two  wives. 

ST.  PETER. 
Dear,  dear! 

BERNICE. 

Send  him  away!  (JACK  gestures -to  GILBERT,  who 
walks  up-stage  to  the  corner  at  the  right.} 

JACK. 

Bernice!  (She  hides  her  face  against  ST.  PETER'S 
breast.}  Bernice!  Listen!  (She  releases  ST.  PETER, 
who  retires  to  the  rear  right.)  You're  mistaken, 
Bernice.  Don't  you  see — I  was  lying  all  the  time? 

BERNICE. 
Lying — what  for? 

JACK. 

Well,  you  see,  I  wanted  you — that  is,  I  wanted  St. 
Peter  to  think  that  I  was  bad. 

BERNICE. 

To  think  you  were  bad?    What  for? 
[64] 


THE  ETERNAL  GIRL 

JACK. 

Well — I  might  as  well  confess  it — I  thought  you 
were  there.  I  hoped  to  find  you  that  way. 

BERNICE. 
Would  you  have  done  all  that  to  find  me  ? 

JACK. 

Would  I?  There  isn't  anything  I  wouldn't  do  for 
you,  and  you  know  it. 

BERNICE. 

(Holding  out  her  hands.}  There — I  forgive  you, 
Jack. 

JACK. 
(Over  her  shoulder.}    Thank  you,  dear. 

GILBERT. 
What  is  all  this?    What's  the  matter? 

ST.  PETER. 

(Sighing.}  I  don't  know.  However,  it's  all  right. 
(Enter  MRS.  SMYTH  from  the  right.  She  sees 
BERNICE.) 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Mr.  St.  Peter,  has  my  daughter  come  here  yet? 
(She  sees  ST.  PETER  in  BERNICE' s  coat  and  veil.}  Ber- 
nice !  Thank  Heaven,  you  are  here  at  last !  (  ST. 
PETER  turns  toward  her.}  Why — you're  not  my 
daughter. 

ST.  PETER. 

(Apologetically.}     No — I'm  afraid  not. 
[65] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

BERNICE. 
(Advancing.)    Here  I  am,  mother. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Bernice!  But  what  are  you  doing  in  that?  (In- 
dicating the  robe.) 

BERNICE. 

Oh,  that's  St.  Peter's.  I  just  borrowed  it.  Here's 
Mr.  Bernard,  mother,  and  he  wants  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. 

JACK. 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Smyth?  Pleasant  weather, 
isn't — I  mean,  the  fact  is,  we — we  thought  that — 

BERNICE. 
He  means  we're  engaged,  mamma. 

MRS.  SMYTH. 

Engaged !  You  engaged  to  Mr.  Bernard  ?  Heavens ! 
What  a  daughter  I  have !  Did  you  ever  see  any  one 
like  her,  Mr.  St.  Peter? 

ST.  PETER. 

(Meekly.)  Oh,  yes.  There  are  lots  of  girls  like 
her.  There  were  girls  like  her  in  my  day ;  there  always 
have  been ;  there  always  will  be  girls  like  her. 

BERNICE. 

As  long  as  there  are  men  like  Jack. 
Curtain. 
[66] 


CLOUDS 
By  MARION  LOUISE  HORTON 

VERY  day  the  shepherd  sat  under  an  oak 
tree  that  grew  on  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
Sometimes  he  busied  himself  with  the 
sheep,  but  more  often  his  thoughts  turned  to 
other  matters.  He  looked  across  the  fields  toward 
the  great  forest  where  the  Druids  had  their  temple, 
or  toward  the  gray  towers  of  the  castle  where 
the  baron  lived,  and  straightway  he  forgot  the 
village  folk  who  had  set  him  there  to  watch  the 
sheep,  forgot  even  the  sheep  cropping  the  grass 
beside  him,  and  lost  himself  in  a  pleasant  land  of 
his  own  making.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  gone  to  the 
forest  with  the  wood-cutters  and  had  spent  a  whole 
day  there,  listening  to  the  fall  of  the  dead  leaves 
and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  among  the  bare 
branches.  And  once  he  had  guided  a  company  of 
travelers  to  the  very  gates  of  the  castle.  He  had 
heard  them  tell  strange  stories  of  journeys  in  far- 
off  lands,  and  they  had  shown  him  the  treasure  that 
they  carried  with  them,  rich  tapestries,  cups  of 
gold  and  of  pallid  silver,  curiously  chased  and  em- 
bossed with  figures,  and  marvelous  jewels,  emerald 
and  jade  and  opal.  And  now  the  shepherd's 
thoughts  turned  more  often  from  the  sheep  and 
toward  the  wonderful  things  he  had  seen. 

Every  day  he  sat  beneath  the  oak  tree,  weaving 
stories  for  himself.     The  tree  was  his  friend;  he 
loved  it  and  whispered  his  fancies  to  it,  and  when 
[67] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

the  little  breezes  stirred  its  branches  he  thought  that  it 
was  speaking  its  own  language  to  him.  Sometimes 
at  night  he  told  the  tales  to  the  village  children  who 
crowded  around  to  listen.  They  liked  best  to  hear 
his  stories  of  adventure  in  far  countries,  of  buried 
fortunes  and  of  kings'  treasures.  But  they  could 
not  always  understand ;  they  would  laugh  when  he 
told  how  the  winds  and  clouds  had  spoken  to  him, 
and  they  would  run  away,  frightened  by  the  strange 
lights  in  his  eyes,  whispering  that  he  must  be  mad 
who  told  such  stories. 

No  one  else  had  ever  asked  him  how  he  spent 
the  long  days  on  the  hilltop,  until  one  night  three 
sheep  were  missing  when  his  father  came  to  count 
them.  The  shepherd  could  not  tell  where  they 
were  nor  how  he  had  lost  them,  but  he  told  a  mar- 
velous story  of  other  sheep  that  he  had  seen. 

"It  was  in  the  sky  that  I  saw  them,"  he  said. 
"They  were  white  sheep,  far  whiter  than  any  of 
those  in  the  village,  and  they  were  too  many  to  be 
counted.  I  saw  the  shepherd  in  the  sky,  too.  At 
first  I  thought  that  he  was  a  cloud,  and  that  all  the 
sheep  were  clouds,  until  I  saw  the  sky-shepherd 
lead  them  across  the  blue  field,  and  I  knew  that  he 
was  trying  to  find  a  pasture  for  them.  They  fol- 
lowed him,  one  by  one,  sometimes  straying  to  one 
side  or  to  the  other,  but  for  the  most  part  following 
steadily  all  day  long  until  they  came  to  the  sunset 
gates.  The  gates  glowed  with  color  like  the  fires 
from  the  heart  of  an  opal,  and  as  the  sky-shepherd 
drew  near  he  caught  the  radiance  of  the  flaming 
color  and  was  transformed,  and  all  of  his  sheep  with 
[68] 


CLOUDS 

him.  Then  they  passed  through  the  sunset  gates 
where  my  eyes  could  not  follow,  for  they  were 
wrapped  in  a  luminous  mist." 

"But  where  are  my  sheep,  the  three  that  are 
lost?"  demanded  the  father.  "Surely  you  have  not 
wasted  the  whole  day  in  dreaming  while  you  left 
the  sheep  untended !  Tell  me,  where  are  my 
sheep?" 

The  shepherd  shook  his  head  stupidly.  The 
strange  light  had  left  his  eyes,  and  he  had  no  words 
to  answer.  Then  his  father  beat  him,  and  bade  him 
be  more  careful  on  the  morrow. 

The  next  night  three  more  sheep  were  missing 
when  his  father  came  to  count  them.  Then  the 
shepherd  told  another  marvelous  story.  "All  day 
I  looked  for  the  sky-shepherd,  because  I  thought 
that  he  could  tell  me  where  to  find  the  sheep  that  I 
had  lost.  But  I  could  not  find  him.  Toward  even- 
ing I  saw  a  woman  in  the  sky,  who  sat  under  a 
tree  and  played  with  the  leaves  that  fell  from  its 
branches.  The  leaves  glowed  with  the  hues  of  the 
autumn,  and  the  brilliance  seemed  to  intoxicate  the 
woman,  for  she  reveled  in  the  glorious  colors.  She 
began  to  dance,  still  playing  with  the  falling  leaves, 
until  their  radiance  filled  the  whole  sky.  But  while 
I  watched,  the  glory  faded  and  it  was  lost  in  a  gray 
mist." 

"But  where  are  my  sheep?  "  demanded  the  father, 
"the  three  that  you  lost  yesterday,  and  the  three  that 
you  lost  today?  Surely  you  have  not  wasted  the 
whole  day  in  dreaming  while  you  left  the  sheep  un- 
tended !  Tell  me,  where  are  my  sheep  ?" 
[69] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

The  shepherd  shook  his  head  stupidly.  The 
strange  light  had  left  his  eyes,  and  he  had  no  words 
to  answer.  Then  his  father  beat  him  and  bade  him 
be  more  careful  on  the  morrow. 

The  next  night  three  more  sheep  were  missing 
when  his  father  came  to  count  them.  Then  the 
shepherd  told  another  marvelous  story.  "All  day 
I  looked  for  the  sky-shepherd,  or  for  the  woman  of 
the  falling  leaves,  because  I  hoped  that  they  could 
tell  me  where  to  look  for  the  lost  sheep.  But  I 
could  not  find  them.  Toward  evening  I  saw  a  group 
of  travelers  in  the  sky.  They  looked  as  if  they  had 
made  a  long  journey,  for  they  went  forward  slowly, 
and  carried  their  burdens  with  difficulty.  Just  as 
the  sun  set  I  saw  them  open  their  great  store  and  lay 
bare  their  treasure,  stuffs  of  rich  texture,  jeweled 
chalices,  and  gems  worth  more  than  a  king's  ran- 
som. And  I  followed  from  afar  off,  eager  to  see 
more,  and  to  ask  them  news  of  the  far  countries ;  but 
before  I  could  reach  them  they  were  shrouded  in 
a  dense  mist,  where  even  my  eyes  could  not  follow." 

"But  where  are  my  sheep,  the  nine  that  you  have 
lost?"  demanded  the  father.  "Surely  you  have  not 
wasted  the  whole  day  in  dreaming  while  you  left 
the  sheep  untended !  Tell  me,  where  are  my 
sheep?" 

The  shepherd  shook  his  head  stupidly.  The 
strange  light  had  left  his  eyes,  and  he  had  no  words 
to  answer.  But  instead  of  beating  him  his  father 
hastened  to  the  council  where  the  villagers  had 
gathered.  They  listened  gravely  to  his  story. 
"Nine  of  my  sheep  he  has  lost,  and  he  will  not  tell 
[70] 


CLOUDS 

where  they  have  gone  or  how  he  has  lost  them. 
He  talks  only  of  clouds  and  sheep  and  people  he  has 
seen  in  the  sky.  Surely  he  is  mad,  or  something 
worse  has  befallen  him." 

"You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  suffered," 
answered  the  oldest  of  the  villagers.  "Many  have 
lost  sheep  and  cattle,  and  even  a  child  has  been 
stolen  from  its  father's  doorstep.  It  is  something 
worse  than  madness  that  has  fallen  upon  your  son ; 
he  is  in  league  with  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  so 
sorrow  has  come  to  the  village." 

They  agreed  to  take  the  shepherd  straightway  to 
the  Druids  and  test  him  before  the  rocking  stones  in 
the  forest. 

Now  the  Druids  had  a  temple  in  the  heart  of  Bede- 
graine.  In  the  shadow  of  the  oak  trees  the  priests 
kept  their  treasures,  and  the  mightiest  of  all  their 
possessions  were  the  sacred  rocking  stones.  Here 
in  the  bright  light  of  the  full  moon  the  village 
folk  gathered  in  a  crowd,  black  against  the  snow- 
covered  hill.  In  the  center  of  the  group  was  the 
trembling  shepherd,  staring  stupidly  as  if  he  did  not 
understand  why  he  had  been  brought  there  or  why 
the  priests  accused  him,  or  even  what  the  rocking 
stones  might  prove  of  guilt  or  innocence. 

As  the  crowd  awaited  the  fateful  moment,  tense, 
expectant,  the  moon  passed  behind  a  cloud.  A 
priest  invoked  the  blessing  of  the  gods.  Still  the 
people  waited.  The  clouds  gathered ;  far  away  there 
was  a  crash  of  thunder.  The  time  had  come.  The 
shepherd  was  led  to  the  stones,  while  the  priests 
bade  him  stretch  forth  his  hands  and  prove  his  in- 
[71] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

nocence.  If  the  stones  did  not  move  from  their 
foundation  he  would  be  condemned.  The  women 
leaned  forward ;  a  child  cried.  A  flash  of  lightning 
brought  the  figures  into  sharp  relief  against  the 
snow. 

As  the  wind  stirred  in  the  forest  behind  him 
the  shepherd  stretched  forth  his  hands.  With  a 
mighty  rush  the  tempest  swept  over  the  forest,  tear- 
ing the  rocks  from  their  moss  and  carrying  them 
far  into  the  shade  of  the  oak  trees. 

"See,  his  clouds  have  come  to  help  him,"  the 
women  whispered  to  each  other.  "It  was  not  for 
nothing  that  he  talked  to  them,  and  watched  them 
all  day  long,  while  the  sheep  wandered  away." 

When  the  shepherd's  innocence  was  proved  the 
black  rain  began  to  fall,  blotting  out  the  hill  and  the 
forest.  Silently  the  village  folk  departed,  leaving 
the  shepherd  alone  with  the  clouds  and  the  forest. 


[72] 


THE  CRIME  OF  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 
An  Amplification. 

By  ROBERT  LUTHER  DUFFUS 

"The  Queen  of  Hearts,  she  made  some  tarts, 

All  on  a  summer's  day. 
The  Knave  of  Hearts,  he  stole  those  tarts,  - 

And  with  them  ran  away." 


were,  you  must  know,  the  Lord 
High  Ace,  who  pertained  to  matters  sacer- 
dotal,  the  King,  who  controlled  the  affairs 
temporal,  the  Queen,  his  consort,  and  the  Knave, 
who  stood  honorary  guard  in  the  palace,  and  com- 
mitted bloody  battle,  when  need  was.  Further- 
more, according  to  the  ancient  chroniclers,  there  was 
a  Princess,  ere  these  things  were  formally  done  into 
history. 

Now,  on  a  sweet  summer  day  in  this  long-forgot- 
ten time,  so  say  the  narrators,  the  Knave  of  Hearts 
courted  the  Princess  in  the  long  shades  of  the  after- 
noon, and  the  Princess  gazed  at  a  bird  in  a  tree 
and  laughed.  After  a  time  the  Knave  grew  weary 
of  kneeling  in  the  lush  grass  at  her  feet,  and  he 
rose,  folded  his  arms,  and  scowled  at  her. 

"Cordina,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  if  you  were  as  fond 
of  me  as  I  am  of  you  you  would  not  treat  me  this 
way." 

"Well,  it's  natural  you  should  like  me  better  than 
I  like  you,"  she  admitted,  brazenly,  "I'm  much  pret- 
tier than  you,  for  example." 
[73] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"Prettier ! "  snorted  the  Knave,  indignantly. 
"Prettier !" 

"And  more  interesting,"  she  added. 

"Am  I  not  interesting?"  he  demanded,  "Am  I  not 
a  soldier  and  a  veteran?  Have  I  not  fought  in  thirty 
battles?  Was  I  not  discovered  in  the  last  with  a 
score  of  dead  on  top  of  me,  which  I  had  killed, 
myself?  Pretty!  Humph!" 

"Well,"  she  remarked,  irrelevantly,  "there  is  the 
Knave  of  Diamonds." 

"Nothing  but  a  miserable  little  Left  Bower!"  he 
snapped. 

"He  is  interesting,"  she  mused.  "He  sits  a  horse 
so  well,  and  walks  with  such  a  gallant  air." 

"Cordina,"  announced  the  Knave,  fiercely,  "I  am 
not  going  to  bandy  words  with  you  any  longer. 
What  is  the  matter  with  me — in  your  eyes?" 

He  stood  erect,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  cap 
in  his  hand,  and  he  made,  indeed,  a  passable  figure 
of  a  man. 

"I  don't  like  to  be  disagreeable,"  she  answered  at 
last,  sweetly.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  write  it  and  send 
it  you  afterwards." 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my  feelings,"  he  said, 
sarcastically. 

"We — el,  if  you  insist  on  knowing,"  she  began, 
speaking  very  slowly  and  looking  quizzically  at  him, 
"I  should  say  that  you  lacked  dramatic  interest — 
verve — artistic  action." 

He  looked  angry  and  bewildered.      She  stifled  a 
smile  and  proceeded.    "To  return  to  your  Left  Bower, 
as  you  call  him,  he  has  just  these  qualities." 
[74] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

The  Knave  was  turning  a  pale  green,  but  words 
seemed  to  fail  him. 

"Now,  you  take  this  last  battle  with  the  King 
of  Spades,"  she  went  on,  "where  were  you  during 
the  battle?  Why,  down  in  the  muck  and  sweat, 
hewing  away  like  a  vulgar  butcher,  in  a  rabble  of 
unwashed  foot-soldiers.  And  the  Bower  was  riding 
in  front,  and  taking  the  big  black  banner,  where 
everyone  could  see.  That  is  what  I  call  artistic 
warfare." 

"I  couldn't  help  losing  my  horse,"  he  muttered, 
sulkily. 

"He  could,"  she  responded,  calmly,  "and  he  got 
the  banner  and  brought  the  news  home.  Oh,  it 
was  splendid  when  he  came  in — such  a  romantic 
bandage  around  his  head,  and  so  pale,  and  the  flag 
across  his  saddle-bow,  and  himself  drooping  so 
wearily  in  the  saddle,  and  holding  by  his  horse's 
mane,  when  he  bowed  and  laid  the  banner  at  the 
King's  feet,  and  then  fainted  right  before  us  all. 
Oh,  it  was  beautiful !  You  should  have  seen  it !" 

"I  should  not !  "  growled  the  Knave.  "I  was  back 
there,  covered  with  mud  and  blood,  doing  my  duty 
and  working  like  a  dog.  There  was  nobody 
applauding  the  brave  deeds  I  did." 

"That's  just  it,"  she  assented,  "that's  just  the 
point,  don't  you  see?" 

"Oh  well,"  he  said  gloomily,  "I  see  you  are  too 
fond  of  dolls  and  popinjays  and  play-actors;  I 
couldn't  suit  you." 

The  Princess  smiled  a  little  at  the  grass,  and  then 
looked  at  him  sadly. 

[75] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"I  was  just  telling  you  what  you  asked  me  to," 
she  said  meekly.  "If  you  could  do  something — some- 
thing bold  and  artistic,  just  to  show  you  could,  why, 
I  might — I  might —  that  is,  please  don't  hurry  off 
in  this  way." 

The  Knave  hesitated.  "Do  you  want  an  un- 
aesthetic  thing  like  me  around?"  he  asked  dejectedly. 

"Please  don't  be  foolish,"  she  answered.  "Of 
course  I'd  like  to  have  you  stay,  if  you'll  sing  to  me." 

She  handed  him  the  guitar  at  her  side  and  with  her 
own  hands  put  the  ribbon  about  his  neck;  then, 
lying  back  in  the  grass  against  the  bole  of  the  tree, 
she  studied  him  quite  at  her  ease.  So  he  sang  until 
the  sky  grew  red  with  evening,  and  then  they  rose 
and  walked  slowly  back  toward  the  towered  city. 

All  at  once  the  Knave  stopped,  and  slapped  his 
knee. 

"I  have  it !"  he  cried,  "I  have  it !" 

"Have  what?"  queried  the  Princess,  raising  her 
eyebrows. 

"An  idea,"  he  explained,  laconically. 

"Oh !  "  said  the  Princess. 

So  they  walked  back  together  into  the  city, 
silently. 

As  they  went  toward  the  palace  they  passed 
through  the  public  square,  where  was  the  great  rock 
of  sanctuary,  from  which  the  law  could  drag  no 
offender.  Just  now  there  were  a  few  grim-looking 
halberdiers  surrounding  the  stone,  and  upon  it  sat 
a  battered-visaged  man,  glowering  wickedly  at  them. 
The  Knave  stopped,  gave  a  little  start,  smiled,  and  then 
went  on  with  the  Princess  into  the  palace. 
[76] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

Now,  as  it  happened,  on  the  next  day  was  to  be 
celebrated  the  solemn  festival  of  the  making,  dedi- 
cating, and  consumption  of  the  ceremonial  tarts. 
This  occasion,  as  the  antique  chronologers  relate, 
came  four  times  a  year,  and  it  was  very  solemn  and 
formal  and  impressive.  The  Queen,  as  the  first 
cook  of  the  kingdom,  made  the  tarts  with  her  own 
hands,  and  the  Lord  High  Ace,  of  the  authority 
judicial  and  sacerdotal,  dedicated  them  to  the  health 
and  well-being  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  higher  dig- 
nitaries of  the  court  ate  them  with  ceremony,  for 
the  common  good.  This  particular  summer  observ- 
ance was  to  be  especially  memorable,  since  the 
whole  Court  of  Diamonds  was  to  attend  in  cele- 
bration of  their  solemn  alliance  with  the  King  of 
Hearts,  under  which  they  hoped  to  entirely  demolish 
the  King  of  Spades  and  his  allies,  and  so  to  destroy 
forever  his  contention  that  Spades  were  trumps. 

Accordingly  the  Queen  rose  early  in  the  morning 
of  the  following  day,  just  as  the  sun  cast  its  first 
red,  level  rays  into  the  palace  windows,  and,  with 
her  maids  of  honor  about  her,  proceeded  to  the  mak- 
ing of  the  tarts.  The  tradition  runs  that  they  were 
apple  tarts,  made  from  the  first  early  apples  of  the 
year,  with  their  young  piquancy  unimpaired  by  over- 
mellowing.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  Queen  and  her 
maidens  busied  themselves  with  flour  and  sugar  and 
spice  and  fruit,  sifting  and  measuring  and  rolling 
and  patting,  and  filling  and  covering;  and  finally,  as 
the  sun  stood  an  hour's  distance  from  the  zenith,  they 
placed  the  dainty  pastries  in  the  great  oven,  closed  the 
doors,  and  rested  from  their  labors. 
T771 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

At  the  full  noon-tide  the  oven-tenders  opened 
their  ovens,  brought  out  the  tarts,  and  placed  them 
on  a  long  shelf  by  the  western  window  to  cool. 
Then  the  Queen  and  her  maids  of  honor  came  and 
gazed  on  the  results  of  their  work,  holding  up  their 
hands  with  little  feminine  shrieks  of  joy,  for  the 
pies  were  light  as  feather-snow  in  winter,  and 
delicately  brown,  like  a  peasant  girl's  face,  and 
aromatic  as  the  spices  of  Cathay.  The  Queen 
walked  proudly  down  the  imposing  line,  and,  as 
was  the  custom,  selected  one  of  the  thirteen  which 
was  just  the  least  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  degree 
less  perfect  than  the  others,  and  ordered  it  to  be 
cut  into  as  many  portions  as  were  in  the  number 
of  herself  and  her  maids.  So  the  High  Assistant 
Slicer  of  the  Tarts  brought  a  sharp  knife  and 
divided  the  tarts  into  dainty  wedges,  and  the  Queen 
and  her  maids  lifted  the  succulent,  nectar-dripping 
morsels  between  their  fingers,  as  the  manner  was, 
and  ate  them  delicately  together.  Then  the  Queen 
smiled  delightedly,  and  the  maids  hugged  each  other 
in  their  glee  and  vowed  that  there  had  never  been 
such  tarts  since  the  world  began. 

With  the  afternoon  came  the  Lords  High  Aces 
of  Hearts  and  Diamonds,  of  the  authority  judicial 
and  sacerdotal,  arm  in  arm,  and  with  them  both  of 
the  courts,  in  all  their  gorgeousness.  All  crowded 
impressively  into  the  great  hall  of  the  palace,  where 
the  Lords  Aces,  as  the  custom  was,  held  open  court, 
that  any  man,  if  he  so  desired,  might  show  cause 
why  the  tarts  should  not  be  eaten.  All  seated 
themselves  in  their  order,  according  to  their 
[781 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

varying  degrees  of  rank,  except  the  Knave  of 
Hearts;  but  neither  in  his  proper  place  or  in  the 
standing  crowd  was  he  to  be  seen,  though  the  Knave 
of  Diamonds  sat  bespangled  and  complacent  in  his 
own  place.  The  Princess  of  -Hearts  sat  demurely, 
turning  now  and  then  with  an  anxious  glance  toward 
the  empty  chair  of  her  Knave.  Her  thoughts  were 
far  away  from  tarts,  for  she  had  begun  to  fear  that 
she  had  sent  the  Knave  on  some  desperate  mission, 
from  which  he  might  not  return. 

When  due  time  arrived  the  Ace  of  Hearts,  attired 
in  his  rich  robes  of  state,  rose  and  advanced  slowly 
to  the  edge  of  his  platform. 

"Oyez !"  cried  the  Heralds,  "Silence  before  the 
Ace!" 

When  the  silence  was  absolute  the  Ace  made  his 
proclamation  in  the  usual  form,  from  which  there 
could  be  no  deviation. 

"The  Queen's  tarts  are  ready  to  be  eaten.  If  any 
can  show  cause  why  the  eating  should  not  be  done,  let 
him  stand  forth  or  be  forever  silent." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  while  the  dignitaries 
who  were  to  partake  looked  pleasantly  anticipative, 
and  the  Queen  of  Hearts  and  her  maids  exchanged 
glances  of  tremulous  pride. 

"Then,"  concluded  the  Ace,  "let  the  Chief  Pur- 
veyor produce  the  tarts."  Then  he  suddenly 
stopped,  dumfounded,  and  a  disheveled,  purple- 
faced  man  came  into  view,  plunging  recklessly  along 
to  the  foot  of  the  higher  dais. 

"I  object,"  he  cried  breathlessly,  "I  object  to  the 
eating  of  the  tarts  !" 

[79] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

A  universal  gasp  of  astonishment  went  through 
the  crowd,  for  this  was  a  thing  unheard  of. 

"Silence !"  commanded  the  Ace,  "Let  him  be 
heard." 

"Silence !"  echoed  the  Heralds. 

The  Ace  turned  and  conversed  in  whispers  with 
his  colleague. 

"Your  objection  is  heard,"  he  said,  turning  back 
toward  the  intruder.  "In  the  name  of  the  authority 
sacerdotal  and  judicial,  I  ask  you,  why  should  not 
the  tarts  be  eaten?" 

The  man  flung  up  his  hand  despairingly. 

"Because — "  he  cried,  "because  the  tarts  are — " 
he  gasped  wildly  for  breath,  "are  gone !"  he  con- 
cluded tragically. 

"Gone !"  exclaimed  the  Ace,  incredulously. 

"Gone!"  echoed  the  Queen  and  her  maids  in 
quavering  tones. 

"Gone!"  repeated  the  messenger,  firmly  and  sadly, 
"Not  a  crumb,  not  a  trace,  not  a  smell  remains." 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke ;  then  the  Queen  of 
Hearts  shrieked  hysterically  and  the  whole  room 
resounded  with  an  excited  clamor. 

Only  two  in  the  hall  remained  outwardly  calm. 
The  Princess  of  Hearts  sat  still  and  silent  in  her 
place,  leaning  forward  a  little,  looking  at  the  empty 
seat  of  her  Knave,  her  expression  that  of  one  who 
knows  not  whether  she  is  delighted,  displeased  or 
frightened.  What  this  expression  may  be  it  is  for 
you  to  imagine.  The  Knave  of  Diamonds  was  also 
looking  at  the  empty  seat,  and  a  flash  of  sinister 
triumph  crossed  his  face. 

[80] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

"I  accuse,"  he  cried,  "the  Knave  of  Hearts !  " 

He  turned  to  smile  at  the  Princess.  Since  the 
stolen  tarts  had  been  made  by  her  own  mother,  and 
since  she  had  encouraged  him  somewhat  in  the  past, 
he  expected,  quite  naturally,  a  look  of  approbation 
from  her.  But  the  Princess — and  in  this  all  our 
accounts  agree — the  Princess  openly  and  obviously 
thrust  out  her  dainty  tongue  at  him,  and  after  that 
saw  him  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  clear  air. 
No  one  had  time  to  speak  again,  for  there  now  came 
bursting  in  a  second  messenger,  and  behind  him  a 
whole  swarm  of  messengers. 

"The  Knave  of  Hearts !"  cried  the  first. 

" —  he  is  eating  the  tarts  in  the  public  square," 
broke  in  another,  crowding  up. 

" —  in  the  public  square !"  shouted  the  rest, 
anxious  to  be  heard. 

There  was  a  general  roar  of  anger,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  Ace  raised  his  hand  for  silence. 

"Friends,"  he  said  impressively,  "there  has  been 
a  deed  committed  for  which  the  known  law  provides 
no  punishment.  I,  with  my  colleague  of  Diamonds, 
will  go  into  solemn  consultation  on  the  matter.  It 
is  for  you  to  procure  the  culprit  and  bring  him 
before  us.  Do  not  skin  him  or  tear  him  limb  from 
limb — as  yet,  but  bring  him  here  intact.  It  is  for 
us  to  decide  what  shall  be  visited  upon  him."  So 
speaking,  he  extended  his  arm  to  the  Ace  of  Dia- 
monds and  the  two  passed  majestically  out  through 
a  curtained  archway  at  the  rear. 

Left  to  itself  the  assembly  sprang  to  its  feet, 
Diamonds  and  Hearts  inextricably  mixed,  and 
[81] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

rushed  violently  toward  the  door.  The  Queen  of 
Hearts  was  now  in  the  throes  of  hysterics,  but  the 
Princess  fled  without  a  backward  glance. 

The  whole  town  was  now  in  an  uproar.  Far  off 
the  great  bell  in  the  town  hall  was  ringing  the  alarm, 
and  the  streets  were  thronged  with  a  bewildered 
mass  of  soldiers,  courtiers  and  townspeople  con- 
verging on  the  square.  The  Princess  was  carried 
bodily  along  by  the  rush,  and  into  the  square,  where 
the  crowd  was  exhausting  its  pent  energy  in  irregu- 
lar swayings  backward  and  forward. 

Finding  herself  near  some  steps  leading  to  an 
upper  door  in  a  house-wall,  the  Princess  mounted 
them,  and  was  able  to  look  out  over  the  whole 
square.  Sure  enough,  there  in  the  center,  on  the 
Sanctuary  Rock,  sat  the  Knave,  complacently  eating 
tarts.  Round  about  him  was  a  little  open  space, 
beyond  which  the  foremost  of  the  crowd  raged  help- 
lessly. No  one  dared  to  cross  the  base  line  of  the 
great  stone,  for  the  penalty  of  a  violator  of  sanctuary 
was  death.  So  the  Knave  sat  there  securely,  with 
the  stolen  tarts  arranged  on  the  stone  behind  him, 
and  ate  them  slowly,  tasting  and  seemingly  enjoying 
every  morsel.  His  face  was  quite  peaceful  and 
contented,  not  at  all  as  it  had  been  yesterday  when 
the  Princess  had  flouted  him.  After  a  while  he 
caught  the  Princess'  eye,  whereupon,  rising  to  his 
feet,  he  bowed  and  ate  a  tart  as  though  he  were 
making  a  toast  to  her. 

At  length  the  Knave  came  to  the  last  tart,  and 
he  ate  it  with  reluctance,  looking  a  long  time  at  the 
final  morsel  before  he  swallowed  it.  Then  he  rose, 
[82] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

brushed  the  crumbs  from  his  clothes  and  heaved  a 
great  sigh  of  cohtent. 

"Good  tarts !"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself.  "Good 
tarts.  I  never  had  enough  before." 

He  looked  over  toward  the  Princess  and  prepared 
to  descend.  She  motioned  frantically  for  him  to 
keep  back,  for  the  foremost  of  the  crowd  were 
already  circulating  around  the  base  of  his  refuge, 
but  the  Knave  smiled  ironically,  and  then  stepped 
quietly  down,  whereupon  the  front  rank  of  the  crowd 
lapped  over  and  fell  upon  him.  There  was  a  great 
swirl  and  flurry,  into  which  came  running  presently 
a  dozen  halberdiers,  and  the  Knave  emerged  in  the 
midst  of  them,  somewhat  dusty,  a  trifle  battered, 
but  still  ostentatiously  jaunty.  He  looked  up  again 
as  they  led  him  pas*  the  Princess,  and  smiled  another 
sardonic  smile. 

"Is  this  dramatic  enough,  and  vervy  and  artistic 
enough?  "  he  asked.  "Does  this  suit  you?  " 

The  Princess,  pale  and  frightened,  had  for  once 
nothing  to  say,  but  in  a  moment,  seeing  some  of  her  at- 
tendants near  by,  called  them  to  her  and  went  back  to 
the  palace  hall  with  more  dignity  than  she  had 
come.  The  Diamond  Knave,  from  an  obscure  cor- 
ner, laughed  quietly  to  himself,  and  followed  the 
procession  back  toward  the  palace.  The  rest  of  the 
throng  trailed  along  behind  those  who  were  con- 
ducting the  prisoner,  and  so  they  pressed  into  the 
hall  again,  first  the  guards  and  courtiers,  who  had 
a  right  to  be  there,  and  next  the  townspeople,  who 
had  no  right  to  enter,  but  did  so  nevertheless. 

In  front  of  all,  beneath  the  vacant  dais  of  the 
[83] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Aces,  they  placed  the  Knave,  still  calm  and 
unabashed,  while  the  ten  halberdiers  glowered  upon 
him  wickedly,  and  the  others  gazed  at  him  with  a 
mingling  of  anger  and  wonderment.  When  all  had 
come  in,  and  the  Heralds  had  regained  their  dignity 
and  their  breath,  a  pursuivant  was  sent  into  the 
presence  of  the  Aces  to  ascertain  if  they  were  ready 
to  give  their  decision. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  Knave  stood 
dramatically,  with  folded  arms  and  insolent  coun- 
tenance, the  focus  and  center  of  all  eyes  and  all 
thoughts.  Once  he  succeeded  in  catching  the 
Princess'  eye,  as  she  glanced  sideways  at  him,  and 
raised  his  eyebrows  in  another  cynical  interrogation. 
She  flushed  helplessly,  glanced  quickly  down,  and 
looked  at  him  no  more;  whereupon  he  whistled  an 
irreverent  note  or  two,  and  turned  away.  Mean- 
while the  Diamond  Knave  had  edged  up  to  the  outer 
rim  of  the  encircling  guards.  His  face  was  lit  up 
with  sinister  triumph  and  his  lip  curled  back  in  a 
sneer.  He  too  tried  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
Princess,  but  she  looked  through  him  as  though  he 
were  not  there. 

"Humph !"  he  said,  turning  to  one  of  the  guards, 
"will  they — er — skin  him,  think  you?" 

"Very  like,"  replied  the  guard  cheerfully,  "or  per- 
chance they  may  boil  him  in  oil."  He  grinned  at 
the  prisoner. 

Just  then  the  curtain  at  the  rear  was  swept  open, 

and  the  two  high  dignitaries  once  more  made  their 

majestic  appearance,  taking  their  former  seats.     The 

Ace  of  Hearts  turned  sternly  toward  the  prisoner. 

[84] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

"Prisoner,"  he  said,  "you  are  before  us  on  the 
charge  of  stealing,  purloining,  abducting,  and  con- 
veying thence  the  Queen's  tarts,  and  of  wickedly, 
scandalously,  and  shamelessly  eating,  devouring  and 
consuming  the  same.  You  may  answer  to  the 
charge.  Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?" 

"Certainly,  your  Altitude,"  responded  the  Knave 
cheerfully,  "certainly  I  ate  the  tarts.  And  whatever 
punishment  you  see  fit  to  inflict  upon  me,  I  shall 
still  die  happy  after  that  foretaste  of  Paradise." 

The  Queen  of  Hearts  and  her  several  maids  tried 
hard  not  to  look  pleased,  and  failed. 

"He  acknowledges  his  guilt,"  declared  the  Ace, 
impressively. 

"He  acknowledges  his  guilt,"  cried  the  Heralds, 
vociferously. 

"Prisoner  and  lords,  listen  to  our  decision," 
resumed  the  Ace,  with  his  most  ponderous  judicial 
air,  "We  find  the  prisoner  guilty  of  the  heinous 
crime  herein  denominated,  namely  the  felonious 
abstraction  of  the  royal  tarts,  and  we  find  him  wor- 
thy of  all  the  extreme  sentences  of  the  law,  namely, 
to  be  boiled  in  oil,  skinned,  beheaded,  drawn  and 
quartered,  and  imprisoned  for  the  rest  of  his  natural 
life." 

The  Knave  of  Diamonds  laughed  boisterously, 
and  was  silenced  by  a  halberdier.  The  Princess 
gave  a  shrill  scream,  and  an  awestruck  murmur  ran 
through  the  hall,  for  never  in  all  the  history  of  the 
state  had  these  penalties  been  inflicted  on  one  man. 
Even  the  prisoner,  for  all  his  nonchalance,  paled 
slightly,  and  shifted  his  feet  uneasily.  The  Ace 
[85] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

looked  reprovingly  over  his  glasses  until  there  was 
silence  again.  Then  he  turned  once  more  to  the 
prisoner. 

"Prisoner,"  he  said,  "have  you  any  reason  to  give 
why  sentence  should  not  be  passed?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have,  your  Altitude,"  replied 
the  Knave,  who  had  regained  his  poise.  "Proceed." 

"Then,"  said  the  Ace,  very  solemnly,  "I  sentence 
you  to  have  all  these  things  heretofore  enumerated 
performed  upon  your  body,  immediately,  in  order  not 
to  keep  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  waiting.  Pur- 
suivant, kindly  take  my  orders  to  the  Lord  High 
Chief  Executioner.  Fiat  fustitia." 

The  crowd  was  very  still  now,  and  a  little  shocked 
stir  could  be  heard,  though  there  were  some  who  had 
brightened  up  and  looked  pleasantly  anticipative. 
The  Knave  was  not  seemingly  affected. 

"As  I  said,"  he  remarked  quietly,  "I  had  no  objec- 
tion to  your  passing  sentence  upon  me — if  it 
amused  you — but  I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  carried  out." 

"Can't  be  carried  out!"  thundered  the  Ace,  ris- 
ing in  anger,  "We  shall  see  !  We  shall  see !" 

"Because,"  continued  the  Knave,  "there  resides 
in  the  tarts  a  certain  sanctity,  by  tradition  and 
observance." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Ace,  "you  may  speak  this  once, 
since  it  will  be  your  last  appearance  here." 

"Well,  it  follows  that,  however  irregular  and  sac- 
rilegious and  criminal  the  eating  may  be  —  and  I 
would  be  the  last  one  to  deny  that  it  was  so  in  this 
case — the  sanctity  still  resides  in  the  eater  or 
eaters,  and  that,  whereas  it  has  formerly  passed 
[86] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

into  forty  persons,  the  whole  amount  has  now 
passed  into  me.  Therefore  I  have  a  monopoly  of  all 
your  official  immunities.  Therefore,"  he  drew  him- 
self up  theatrically,  "therefore  the  law  cannot  touch 
me.  You  had  better  tell  your  evil-smelling  guard 
to  go  away  and  boil  and  skin  and  behead  someone 
else." 

He  paused.  The  Princess  was  looking  up 
delightedly,  admiringly.  The  Ace  sat  silent,  look- 
ing down,  thinking.  A  windy  murmur  passed  over 
the  crowd,  and  then  it  was  silent,  intently  watching 
the  Knave  and  his  two  judges.  The  Ace  of  Hearts 
looked  at  the  Ace  of  Diamonds,  and  the  latter  nod- 
ded sadly.  "He  is  right,"  he  whispered,  "we  can  do 
nothing  with  him."  Then  both  Aces  turned  a  deep 
purple  with  rage. 

After  a  time  the  Ace  of  Hearts  got  his  voice  under 
control  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"The  law,"  he  began  hoarsely,  "the  law  cannot 
attack  the  law.  The  prisoner  is  guilty  and  deserv- 
ing of  death ;  the  prisoner  is  free.  Let  the  guards 
stand  back !" 

The  Ace  sat  down  again  in  the  midst  of  a  wild 
commotion,  and  the  guards  fell  slowly  and  reluc- 
tantly back  from  about  the  prisoner.  Without 
hesitating  an  instant,  the  Knave  strode  over  toward 
the  Princess. 

"Cordina,"  said  the  Knave,  "this  is  dramatic, 
vervy  and  artistic,  or  I  miss  my  guess.  Cordina, 
am  I  interesting  now?" 

"Ye — es,"  said  the  Princess,  demurely,  "ve — ery." 

Whereupon,  as  one  of  our  chroniclers  quaintly 
[87] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

says,  the  Knave  proceeded  to  act  as  if  there  were 
none  other  there  than  he  and  she. 

The  chief  narrator  goes  on  to  say  that  the  Knave 
married  the  Princess  the  next  day,  much  to  the 
rage  of  her  family  and  of  the  kingdom  in  general; 
that  he  then  boldly  assumed  the  duties  and  powers 
which  no  one  could  deny  he  had  obtained  by  the 
consumption  of  the  royal  tarts,  and  carried  on  these 
duties  with  such  great  energy  and  ability  that  he 
gradually  won  back  everyone  to  his  side,  excepting 
the  Knave  of  Diamonds,  who  endeavored  to  poison 
his  rival's  soup  and  was  exiled  for  life.  It  is  added, 
further,  that  the  Knave  of  Hearts  had  so  gained  in 
favor  at  the  end  of  another  year,  that  on  the  fourth 
tart-making  after  the  famous  theft  there  were  made 
twenty-four  tarts,  twelve  for  the  chief  dignitaries, 
as  of  old,  and  twelve  for  the  Knave.  So  the  Knave 
continued  in  his  office  for  the  remainder  of  his  four- 
score years,  and  he  and  his  descendants  for  many 
generations  regularly  ate  twelve  tarts  at  each  of  the 
four  ceremonial  tartages  of  the  year.  And  the  rea- 
son for  this,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  has  up  to 
this  day  been  the  despair  of  antiquarians. 


LITTLE   KINGDOM 

By  AURANIA  ELLERBECK 

N  oligarchy  of  thirty  men  ruled  "Little 
Kingdom"  camp.  In  age,  manners,  and 
morals  the  thirty  tyrants  varied  as  greatly 
as  those  of  whom  we  have  so  often  learned  in  the 
good  old  Roman  history  days,  from  Sod,  the  Greek, 
who  slunk  in  the  shadows  by  instinct,  to  Fisher, 
who  wore  his  "devil-may-care-but-I-don't"  air  like 
a  gossamer  that  might  some  day  wear  thin  and  fall 
away.  Fisher  was  the  only  man  in  the  camp  who 
was  not  tagged  with  a  characteristic  nickname. 
Nothing  complimentary  was  permissible.  Nothing 
uncomplimentary  seemed  to  fit.  He  had  no  little 
vices  men  could  sneer  at — those  he  possessed  were 
so  magnitudinous  that  lesser  sinners  merely  blinked 
in  the  dazzling  light  of  his  vicious  achievements  and 
passed  on,  overawed.  He  was  still  Fisher. 

Little  Kingdom  was  in  her  third  year,  when  she 
was  most  prosperous  and  unholy.  Gold  and  gamb- 
ling houses  fought  together,  pick  and  shovel,  to 
possess  the  souls  of  the  mighty  thirty.  It  was  war 
between  nugget  and  dollar,  and  Providence,  the 
roulette  wheel,  allotted  dollar  the  first  victory.  Yes, 
dollar  won  "Blab"  Draymer's  soul,  won  it,  and  tam- 
pered with  it.  Now,  Blab  was  taking  a  quick  trail 
from  Little  Kingdom — the  trail  that  leads  out  and 
away  and  endeavors  to  lose  itself  among  the  foot- 
hills. 

Only  once  after  he  had  swung  his  leg  across  his 
[89] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

pony's  back  and  started  in  his  mad  flight  down  the 
road  did  Blab  pull  up — that  was  when,  just  safely 
out  of  sight  of  camp,  he  pulled  in  his  pretty  little 
roan  and  listened  to  the  sound  of  heavy  footsteps 
coming  toward  him  on  the  road.  The  indecision 
of  fear  hovered  over  his  face  for  a  second.  Which 
way  should  he  turn?  If  once  Little  Kingdom  dis- 
covered the  trail  he  had  chosen,  some  of  the  shep- 
herds would  soon  be  out  after  the  lost  sheep.  Blab 
felt  for  his  Colt,  then  remembered  where  and  why 
he  had  left  it  behind.  But  this  paper  in  his  pocket ! 
He  had  carried  away  with  him  the  note  he  had 
taken  precious  time  to  scribble,  the  note  that  was 
so  imperative.  It  must  reach  Fisher  and  at  once. 
But  should  he  risk  the  danger  of  capture,  merely 
for  this? 

Cowardice  was  a  foe  whose  onslaught  Blab 
could  better  cope  with  than  the  seductive  little  dol- 
lar that  had  ruined  him,  and  he  stood  his  ground. 
Those  few  scrawled  words  must  be  delivered.  His 
thumping  heart-beats  were  counting  the  seconds 
as  he  held  Rosie's  head  and  waited  to  see  what 
fate  the  quickly  advancing  steps  would  bring.  A 
heavy  form  swung  around  the  bend  of  the  road. 

"Fisher!"  For  a  moment  the  weakness  of  reas- 
surance after  fear  almost  sickened  Blab.  Here  was 
the  only  man  in  Little  Kingdom  who  wouldn't 
"peach." 

Fisher  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  stopping  to  survey  Blab's 
wild  dishevelment.  "Well,  you  look  about  like  you'd 
seen — the  devil." 

[90] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

Blab  leaned  over  his  saddle.  "I  have,"  he  whis- 
pered tensely,  "and  I'm  getting  out  of  his  sight  as 
quick  as  I  know  how." 

"Beating  it?"  asked  Fisher,  showing  no  surprise 
in  his  voice,  though  the  lines  around  his  eyes  had 
deepened  suddenly. 

"Yes,  I've  about  done  myself,  and  I  guess  they're 
on  by  now,"  Blab  answered  grimly. 

"You'd  better  get  along  then,  and  save  what's 
left."  Fisher  motioned  impatiently  down  the  road. 

"Hold  on ;  I  didn't  stop  here  and  wait  fer  you  fer 
nothin',"  menaced  the  fugitive. 

"For  me?"  questioned  Fisher. 

"Yes,  it's  about  my  sister.  I  just  got  word  that 
she'd  reach  camp  today.  She's  a  good  girl,  ^Rosie 
is.  I  named  the  mare  for  her."  It  was  undeniable 
proof  of  affection. 

"But—" 

"Hold  on,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  I 
know  that  as  well  as  you.  Course  'taint  a  decent 
place  for  a  decent  girl,  but  she  wasn't  making  money 
and  got  lonesome,  and  just  wrote  that  she  had 
started  on  her  way  up  here  to  keep  house  for  me. 
I  just  finished  reading  her  letter,  and  was  going 
to  leave  this  message  for  you."  He  tore  up  the 
paper  he  had  risked  his  neck  to  deliver. 

"Cut  it  short,  man,  there's  dangei."  Fisher's 
steady  blue  eyes  were  anxiously  watching  the  road. 

"Hold  on,  I  got  to  finish.  Now,  Sis  can't  take 
care  of  herself  in  this  hole — : 

Fisher   smiled.      If   "Sis"   was   the   counterpart  of 
"Brother,"  her  face  would  be  sufficient  protection. 
[91] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"I  want  you,  Fisher — I  want  you  to  look  after 
her." 

It  was  a  master  stroke  on  Draymer's  part.  In 
Fisher's  protection  he  knew  the  girl  would  be 
absolutely  safe  from  the  other  men  in  the  camp — 
and  from  Fisher. 

"Don't  say  you  won't,"  he  continued  hurriedly,  as 
the  other  man  started  to  protest.  "I  know  you  ain't 
got  any  use  for  petticoats,  but  that's  the  reason  why 
I'm  goin'  to  trust  her  with  you." 

Just  then  Fisher's  acute  senses  caught  a  faint 
sound  in  the  distance.  Rosey  pricked  up  her  ears. 

"Hike,  man!     Your  time's  up!" 

Blab  remained  motionless.  "Promise  me, 
Fisher,"  he  demanded.  "Promise  me,  or  I  won't 
stir !" 

"Fool!  can't  you  hear?"  The  hoof  beats  were  now 
faintly  audible. 

"Promise,  I  say !  Tell  the  boys  she's  your  sister 
or — or — " 

"All  right,  I  swear  it.      Now  git!" 

Striking  the  mare's  flanks  with  his  heavy  tramp- 
ing stick,  Fisher  sent  her  tearing  around  the  curve  of 
the  hill.  And,  as  soon  as  Blab  had  been  swallowed 
up  in  the  mountain,  Fisher  began  at  once  to  beat 
vigorously  among  the  dry  bushes  at  the  edge  of 
the  road,  until  to  his  supreme  satisfaction  he 
encountered  a  fair-sized  rattlesnake.  In  his  battle 
with  the  silver-scaled  reptile  he  took  care  that  the 
ground  received  most  of  his  blows,  so  that  the  snake 
was  still  half  alive  when  three  riders  galloped  down 
the  road  and  drew  rein  beside  him. 
[92] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

"Whoa !  How  long  you  been  on  this  trail, 
Fisher?"  It  was  Hank  who  spoke  thus  importu- 
nately, while  the  other  two  horsemen  eagerly  scanned 
the  hillside. 

"'Bout  all  day.  What's  up?"  nonchalantly 
enough. 

"Since  noon?"     Hank  snapped. 

"  'Bout  all  day,  you  heard  me  say.  Lost  some- 
thing?" Fisher  struck  another  desultory  blow  at 
the  rattler,  putting  an  end  at  last  to  its  writhing 
coils.  It  was  like  him  to  appear  disinterested.  Was 
that  a  yawn? 

"Blab  Draymer's  robbed  the  bank!  He  jumped 
camp  at  noon  today."  Hank  positively  shot  the 
words  at  the  imperturbable  Fisher,  who,  after  allow- 
ing the  thunderbolt  to  stagger  him  sufficiently, 
coolly  exclaimed : 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned !  And  you're  chasing 
him?"  He  really  was  surprised  to  discover  the 
exact  nature  of  Blab's  defection. 

"Every  trail  is  loaded,  of  course." 

"Cause  if  you  are,  you'd  better  try  another  track," 
suggested  Fisher,  his  level,  unflinching  eyes  as  dis- 
concerting as  a  barricade. 

"Ye  don't  say!  Wall,  I  had  a  wrong  hunch." 
Hank  was  weakly  retreating,  but  his  instinct  told 
him  to  go  forward.  "Why,  just  back  there  a  ways, 
I  cud  a  swore  I  heard  hoof  beats,"  he  remonstrated. 

"I  was  about  ten  minutes  pounding  at  this  here 
rattler."  Fisher's  conclusive  tone  challenged  dis- 
belief. 

"Oh,  yes  !  I  reckon  that's  what  we  heard.  Wall, 
[93] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

boys,  t'other  way  now,  double  quick."  And  with 
a  vindictive  dig  of  his  spurs,  Hank  wheeled  his  horse 
around  and  sent  him  flying  back  along  the  road,  the 
other  two  racing  after  his  dust. 

"Fools,"  blurted  out  Fisher,  more  scornful  of  his 
dupes  than  proud  of  his  successful  duplicity.  Kick- 
ing the  mangled  rattlesnake  aside,  he  tramped  on, 
soliloquizing,  "So  Blabber  helped  himself  out  of  the 
bank,  did  he  ?  Humph !  I  always  knew  he  was  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  make  an  honest  gambler." 

Ruminating  thus,  he  soon  came  in  sight  of  the 
little  cluster  of  shanties  where  the  thirty  ruled  and 
rioted.  Little  Kingdom  was  the  most  interestingly 
ugly  mining  camp  of  all  the  horde  that  sprang  up 
like  weeds  after  the  strike  at  Cripple  Creek.  Moun- 
tain, hill,  rock  were  jammed  together  helter  skelter 
without  thought  of  beauty  or  design  on  Nature's 
part.  Here  and  there  a  shaggy  log  cabin,  built 
into  the  mountainside,  tailings  dumps,  a  pick,  a 
shovel,  a  sieve,  gave  witness  to  the  underground 
life  of  which  they  were  the  symbols. 

On  reaching  camp,  Fisher  stopped  at  the  first 
"bunch  of  dead  trees,"  as  he  was  wont  to  style  the 
poorly  built  cabins  that  were  used  for  stores. 

"Hey,  Fisher,  heard  the  news?"  called  out  "Bot- 
tles" from  behind  the  bar,  as  Fisher  swung  into 
"Kingdom  Come"  saloon. 

"Yes,  I  heard  it,"  he  returned  with  induced  calm. 
His  difficult  mission  in  camp  now  was  evidently  one 
of  pacification. 

"Wasn't  ye  tuk  back  some?  What'll  ye  hev? 
whiskey  ?"  [  94  ] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

"Two,  thanks.  It's  a  thirsty  day.  Camp  is  some 
quiet.  Everybody  gone  out  after — ?" 

"The  thief?"  The  bartender  had  no  qualms. 
"Blab"  had  only  pleasant  associations.  "Blab"  was 
a  good  fellow,  a  silly  old  Blab,  who  told  everything 
he  knew — except  that  he  had  a  sister.  The  bank 
robber  had  no  name. 

"Yes — the  whole  bunch  gone?"  Fisher  repeated. 

"All  but  a  few.  Some  of  the  boys — ha!  ha! — 
is  up  gettin'  their  fingers  trimmed." 

"Getting  what?" 

"Oh,  ain't  ye  heard?  Wall,  ye'll  die  when  I  tell 
ye.  There'e  a  manicoor  in  camp !" 

"A  what?  Manicure?  On  the  dead?"  Fisher's 
eyes  twinkled  appreciatively. 

"Yep !  One  o'  them  as  tickles  yer  finger  nails. 
A  female  manicoor !  Lord !  Lord !"  and  Bottles 
held  his  shaking  sides. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  one.  A  manicurist  in  Little 
Kingdom !  I  thought  we  had  enough  women  hang- 
ing around  this  camp  already."  A  new  aspect  of 
the  case  presented  itself  to  his  mind. 

"Yes,  she's  opened  up  her  office  in  that  robber's 
bunk—" 

"Blab's  cabin?"  questioned  Fisher,  sharply,  put- 
ting down  his  glass  before  it  reached  his  lips. 

"Yep,"  said  Bottles,  polishing  a  glass  with  his 
huge  bandana  handkerchief.  "Must  be  an  old  flame 
o'  his'n  just  come  out  the  day  he  left — " 

"Did  you  say  some  of  the  boys  had  started 
a'ready?"  jumping  to  his  feet  and  slapping  on  his 
cap.  [  95  ] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"Yep !"  Bottles  regarded  with  amazement  the 
sudden  access  of  animation. 

"Walk  or  ride?"  striding  to  the  door. 

"Walk.     Why,  what  in  — " 

"Tell  Sandy  I  took  his  horse.  So  long!"  and 
Fisher  was  off,  tearing  holes  in  the  road. 

"Wall!  Wall!  Ef  he  ain't  gone  off  an'  left  his 
drink.  An'  fer  a  woman,  too,"  said  Bottles,  staring 
in  amazement  at  the  fast  disappearing  cloud  of  dust. 

When  Fisher  overtook  the  bunch,  they  had  just 
congregated  outside  the  cabin  door,  passing  pleas- 
antries and  unpleasantries  about  the  little  black  and 
gold  sign,  "Hair  Dressing,  Manicuring  and  Facial 
Massage."  And  even  Fisher  had  to  hide  a  smile  at  the 
utter  incongruity  of  such  a  sign  over  such  a  door. 

Sliding  off  his  horse,  which  was  dripping  with 
foam  from  his  uphill  gallop,  Fisher  stalked  calmly 
up  to  the  sportive  group ;  five  there  were  in  all — the 
five  of  the  thirty  with  whom  he  was  least  inclined 
to  deal — all  more  or  less  intoxicated  with  an 
unbalanced  mixture  of  holiday,  robbery  and  gin. 

"Howdy,  boys,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  leading 
Sandy's  horse  up  by  the  reins. 

"  'Lo,  Fisher !"  Sandy  grinned.  "Come  to  see  the 
she-barber?" 

"Want  a  facial,  Fisher?"  another  called  out. 

"You  boys  didn't  wait  long  to  make  your  call," 
Fisher  suggested. 

"Make  a  call  yerself,"  Sandy  leered.  "We  come 
up  to  git  our  hands  helt,  heh,  boys?" 

"Take  a  tuck  in  your  voice,  Sandy  my  friend! 
I  don't  want  the  little  girl  offended.  There's  your 
[96] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

horse,"  and  he  threw  the  reins  over  Sandy's 
unwilling  and  unsteady  hands.  Then  brushing  past 
the  others,  belligerently  arranged  before  the  steps, 
Fisher  strode  up  to  the  cabin  door  and  laid  his  hand 
impressively  on  the  knob. 

"Leave  holt  thar,  Fisher.  I  was  fust  come.  You 
ain't  got  no  claim  on  the  old  sneak's  girl,"  "Measles" 
whined,  attempting  to  crowd  Fisher  from  his  place. 

"Step  aside,  quick  now,  and  no  more  talk  from 
you,"  said  Fisher  sharply.  "I  came  up  here  to 
invite  you  fellows  in.  I  wanted  to  introduce  ye  to 
my  sister,  but — " 

"Wat  ye  givin'  us?"  The  minature  mob  was 
grumbling. 

"Any  man  who  don't  behave  like  a  gentleman  to 
my  sister  will  get  a  little  ray  of  sunlight  let  into  his 
head."  With  this  gentle  warning,  Fisher  stepped 
into  the  cabin,  omitting  the  formality  of  a  knock. 

What  he  saw  in  the  dimly  lighted  room  he  entered 
was  a  slim  little  piece  of  a  boy — no,  it  was  in 
petticoats,  so  it  must  be  a  girl — unwinding  herself 
from  the  burlap  curtains,  hidden  behind  which  she 
had  been  watching  with  tremulous  curiosity  the 
proceedings  without.  She  turned  a  pale,  expectant 
face  up  to  Fisher. 

"Come  here," — her  name?  Oh,  yes,  Blab's  pony, 
Rosie!  "Come  here,  Rosie,  I  want  to  introduce 
you  to  my  friends."  In  a  lower  voice,  he  whispered, 
"Blab — that's  Al,  you  know — told  me  to  look  after 
you.  It's  all  right;  just  do  as  I  say." 

At  the  mention  of  Al,  Rosie's  slightest  fear  was 
dispelled.  She  tripped  up  to  Fisher's  side  and 
[97] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

stood  heroically  outside  the  door,  smiling  at  the 
unkempt  quintet  before  her,  without  pompadour, 
earrings,  or  any  of  the  usual  gaudy,  feminine  frip- 
pery. She  seemed  to  them  little  more  than  a  boy, 
accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  more  buxom 
wenches  Little  Kingdom  boasted.  A  slim,  simple 
little  maid  she  was,  with  brown  hair  screwed  into  a 
long  braid  and  coiled  evenly  around  her  well  shaped 
head.  Her  colorless  oval  face,  with  its  brave  little 
smile,  above  a  modest,  long-sleeved  sailor  suit,  gave 
an  impression  of  gentility  that  took  the  gaping 
miners  aback.  This  was  a  lady.  She  showed 
neither  her  elbows  nor  her  ankles. 

"Boys,  this  is  my  sister,"  Fisher  graciously 
declaimed. 

Rosie  smiled  again,  but  the  miners  continued 
merely  to  gaze.  Incredulity  and  amazement  held 
them  dumb. 

"Boys,  this  is  my  sister,"  Fisher  repeated  more 
pointedly  and  emphatically  than  before.  His  level 
eyes  challenged  response. 

Rosie's  smile  was  beginning  to  droop  and  sag. 

"Boys !"  more  determined  than  ever.  "I  say, 
this  is  my  sister!"  The  introduction  was  more 
threat  than  appeal  now.  But  not  until  Fisher  shifted 
his  hand  toward  his  hip  pocket  did  his  speechless 
friends  appear  to  loosen  up.  First  Measles  stepped 
cautiously  forth,  coughed,  sniffed,  and  then,  as 
words  still  failed  him,  went  on  a  systematic  search 
for  his  pocket  handkerchief.  By  this  time  Sandy, 
with  his  eyes  glued  to  Fisher's  hand,  was  moved 
to  action.  With  a  disgusted  snort  at  the  incom- 
[98] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

patent  Measles,  he  spat  vigorously  and  began : 

"We  boys — I  say — we  boys  ain't  such  duffers  as 
we  seem.  We  kin  talk  sometimes,  but  we  was  so 
tuk  back  to  find  you  was  Fisher's  sister,  that — 
that — wasn't  we,  boys?"  with  an  appealing  look  at 
the  others. 

"You  bet !"  came  the  loud  acclaim. 

"But  we  air  glad  to  know  ye,"  went  on  Sandy, 
gathering  courage,  "an'  glad  to  see  ye  here  amongst 
— amongst — "  he  waved  a  limp  hand  impressively 
around  to  indicate  the  barren  hillsides,  "amongst 
these  beautiful  Colorado  mountings.  Ain't  we, 
boys  ?  And  we'll — we'll  come  agin  tomorrer,  won't 
we,  boys?" 

"You  bet !  You  bet !  So  long,"  was  the  scatter- 
ing chorus,  as  they  took  advantage  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  escape. 

So  Rosie  was  safely  installed.  As  she  watched 
her  visitors  disappear,  a  more  silent  lot  than  had 
arrived,  she  drew  a  long  breath,  let  it  out  in  a  ner- 
vous little  laugh  and  sighed,  "Goodness  me !" 

"Frightened?"  Fisher  asked  dryly,  his  eyes  full  of 
speculation  as  he  watched  her. 

"Not — not  so  very — I  knew  they  were  mostly 
fooling.  But  come  in  and  tell  me  what's  happened 
to  Al.  Are  you  and  he  brothers,  that  you  are  so 
suddenly  related  to  me?  Where  is  the  blessed  boy?" 

The  blessed  boy !  Fisher  realized  that  his 
responsibilities  as  guardian  were  only  beginning.  His 
initial  lies  had  to  be  built  on  a  large  scale. 

"Oh,"  carelessly,   "Al's  all  right,  but  he's  been 
worrying  about  money  lately  and — " 
[991 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

,  "Poor  boy!  He  never  had  any  luck!"  Rosie 
sat  down  on  the  rickety  stump  that  served  as  a 
stool  and  tucked  her  chin  thoughtfully  between  her 
fists.  "What's  he  doing  now?"  she  demanded. 

"Well,  he  saw  a  chance  to  make  a  good  thing, 
and  he  jumped  at  it,"  said  Fisher,  consoling  himself 
with  the  thought  that  this  at  least  was  true. 

"So  you  think  he'll  come  out  all  right?"  she 
inquired  eagerly. 

"It's  hard  to  tell,"  said  Fisher  soberly,  thinking 
of  the  relentless  band  that  was  scouring  the  hills. 
"But  if  he  does,  he  will  have  made  as  much  in  two  or 
three  days  as  we  fellows  around  here  could  save 
in  a  year."  And  he  had  to  struggle  to  keep  a  tinge 
or  irony  out  of  his  voice. 

"Why  didn't  he  wait  for  me?"  she  asked,  eagerly 
enough. 

Fisher  reflected.  "Well,  he  didn't  have  time,  and 
he  couldn't  have  taken  you  with  him  anyway."  He 
was  gambling  with  the  truth. 

"But  at  least  he  could  have  waited  to  say  good- 
bye." 

"No !  No !"  said  Fisher,  growing  alarmed  at  her 
insistence.  "He — he  was  in  an  awful  hurry.  He 
had  to  take  the  only  chance  he  saw,  and  take  it 
quick.  But  he  told  me  to  tell  you  goodbye  for  him, 
and  that—" 

"And  that  he  would  come  back  soon,"  she  finished 
hopefully. 

"Mm — ye — es,"  Fisher  doubtfully  assented. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes,  except  that  he  told  me  to  tell  you  to  go 
[100] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

right  back — back  where  you  came  from."  Lies 
were  coming  quite  fluently  now. 

"He  did!  Well,  I  won't!"  jumping  to  her  feet 
and  resolutely  facing  him. 

"You  won't?"     Fisher  sat  up. 

"No,  indeed.  I  haven't  got  a  cent  to  my  name ! 
I'd  only  been  working  a  month  when  I  lost  my 
job  at  Colorado  Springs;  that's  why  I  came  here. 
And  now  I  haven't  any  other  place  to  go  to.  So 
I'm  going  to  stay.  Is  that  all?" 

"Well," — Fisher  looked  at  this  very  determined 
young  person  and  canvassed  his  imagination  for 
another  excuse.  "Yes,"  he  concluded  lamely,  "that's 
all." 

"Then  if  that's  all,  how  do  you  happen  to  be  such 
a  close  connection  of  mine?  Was  it  a  joke?" 

"Yes — er — no,  you  see — Oh,  you  don't  understand 
this  camp!  Hello,  what's  this?  By  jingo,  Al's 
revolver."  He  picked  up  the  weapon  familiarly. 

"He  forgot  it!"  Rosie  glanced  apprehensively  at 
the  glistening  object  he  so  carelessly  fingered. 

"No,  I  reckon  he  left  it  here  on  purpose  for  you," 
suggested  Fisher,  rejoicing  inwardly  that  the  blue 
barrelled  "44"  had  distracted  her  attention  from  the 
matter  of  their  relationship. 

"For  me !  I  can't  shoot,"  she  objected  with  a 
shudder. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  learn."  There  was  an 
uncertainty  about  ordering  this  inflexible  young 
girl  around  that  was  novel  to  Fisher. 

"But  why  do  I  have  to  learn  to  shoot?  Oh,  say, 
how  stupid  of  me!  I  might  as  well  be  working 
[101] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

while  I  talk.  I've  got  some  warm  water  all  ready — 
here !"  she  brought  forward  a  bowl  of  soapy  water 
and  planted  it  carefully  on  the  table  in  front  of  her 
guest. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  He  was  as  terrified 
as  a  schoolboy. 

"Give  you  a  manicure,  while  you  wait."  This 
in  her  professional  tones. 

"Oh,  no  you  aren't !"  he  stammered,  blushing  as 
he  hid  his  rough,  calloused  hands  behind  him,  after  a 
glance  at  her  long  white  fingers,  tipped  with  their 
daintily  polished  nails. 

But  she  pulled  them  gaily  up  to  the  table.  "You 
men  are  heathens !  Goodness,  look  here  !  That 
nail  is  just  like  a  Chinaman's.  Aren't  you  ashamed? 
Now,"  she  went  on,  as  she  sawed  away  at  Fisher's 
toughened  thumbnail  with  a  squeaky  file,  making 
cold  chills  chase  down  his  spine,  "now,  why  do 
I  have  to  learn  to  shoot?"  The  file  was  suspended 
for  one  comforting  moment. 

"For  the  same  reason  that  you  have  to  take  me 
for  a  brother — to  protect  yourself.  Every  decent 
woman  in  this  camp  carries  a  gun  and  knows  how  to 
use  it.  The  others — don't!" 

Rosie,  wondering,  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye, 
with  a  gaze  as  unflinching  as  his  own.  Suddenly 
down  came  the  eyes,  and  at  the  same  time  the  file 
unmercifully  descended:  Then  the  agonies  were 
uninterrupted  for  a  few  thoughtful,  pregnant 
moments.  This  was  Rosie's  first  lesson  in  taking 
care  of  herself.  She  was  not  slow  to  catch  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  words. 

[102] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

Fisher  soon  found  himself  bound  and  fettered 
with  all  a  brother's  responsibilities.  In  the  days 
that  followed  Blab's  disappearance  Rosie  demanded, 
as  a  sister,  considerable  attendance  from  her  new 
brother.  They  had  the  camp  practically  to  them- 
selves while  the  boys  were  out  on  a  desperate 
search  for  their  lost  earnings.  So  Fisher  devoted 
most  of  his  time  to  his  new  companion. 

Many  were  the  hours  he  spent  in  tramping  over 
the  hills,  teaching  Rosie  to  handle  her  shining  little 
weapon,  until  one  day  she  was  able  on  the  first 
attempt  to  knock  down  a  squirrel  from  the  ledge 
of  a  rock. 

"You'll  qualify,"  Fisher  told  her  on  that  occasion. 

One  day  as  she  pinned  on  her  hat  before  Blab's 
old  cracked  shaving  mirror,  preparatory  to  starting 
out  on  a  tramp  with  Fisher,  Rosie  exclaimed,  "My, 
I'm  getting  fat !  My  face  is  like  a  full  moon." 
She  turned  to  Fisher  for  corroboration  of  her  state- 
ment. She  had  realized,  with  not  a  little  chagrin, 
that  he  seemed  to  forget  to  notice  her  appearance 
unless  his  attention  was  particularly  called  to  it. 

"Yes,  your  face  is  healthier,"  he  rejoined, 
laconically. 

Healthier  indeed!  He  failed  to  realize  that  she 
was  prettier  as  well.  He  treated  her  as  if  she  were 
a  mere  boy.  Still,  it  was  small  wonder.  She 
really  might  just  as  well  have  been  a  boy,  for  all 
that  the  billowy  sailor  suit  revealed  of  curve  and 
contour. 

"He  thinks  I'm  just  a  kid,"  she  ruminated,  nettled 
at  the  impersonal  attitude  of  the  favorite  of  Little 
[103] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Kingdom.  It  had  taken  her  scarcely  any  time  to 
find  out  how  this  stalwart,  blue-eyed  miner  stood 
in  the  eyes  of  the  camp — and  in  her  own.  His 
very  indifference  had  been  an  attraction  up  to  a  certain 
point.  But  that  point  had  long  ago  been  reached, 
and  now  Rosie  even  began  to  doubt  whether  she 
enjoyed  being  passed  off  as  his  sister.  Fisher  took 
too  naturally  to  the  role  of  brother. 

"I  have  always  heard,"  she  began,  one  day,  as  they 
sat  together  on  the  front  steps  of  her  cabin,  "that 
miners  were  such  dreadful  creatures.  Of  course 
I  didn't  believe  it,  because  there  was  Al — and  you! 
You  don't  look,"  scanning  his  frank,  sunburned 
countenance,  "as  though  you  had  ever  done  any- 
thing wrong  in  your  life." 

Fisher  opened  his  lips,  then  closed  them  again 
without  speaking.  He  had  a  well  defined  idea  that 
what  he  wanted  to  say  was  not  precisely  in  keeping 
with  what  he  was  morally  obliged  to.  The  sudden 
appearance  of  a  rider  on  the  road  below  was  a  wel- 
come interruption. 

"There  comes  Hank  with  the  mail,"  he  remarked, 
pointing  to  a  dust-beclouded  figure  crossing  the 
bridge. 

"The  mail  ?    Oh,  perhaps  there's  a  letter  from  Al !" 

"I'll  go  down  and  see  as  soon  as  it's  passed  out. 
And  don't  forget,  when  you  see  the  rest  of  the  boys, 
not  to  mention  Al.  You  might  be  found  out, 
though  you  two  certainly  don't  look  much  alike." 
It  was  the  nearest  he  had  ever  come  to  compli- 
menting her. 

"But  why  must  we  keep  on — " 
[104] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

"I  told  you  you  needed  a  brother  in  camp," 
decisively. 

Rosie  was  silenced. 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  "my  first  name  is 
Hal,  in  case  you  want  to  use  it  some  day." 

"Hal  Fisher?"  exclaimed  Rosie,  looking  quiz- 
zically at  him  for  a  moment. 

"Yes — why  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  I've  just  heard  Al  mention  you." 
Now  she  remembered  Al  had  told  her  once  that 
Hal  Fisher  was  the  best  friend,  the  worst  enemy, 
the  luckiest  miner,  the  squarest  boss,  but  the  hardest 
gambler  in  camp.  Her  dark  brows  were  drawn 
into  a  thoughtful  frown  as  she  recalled  the  words. 
A  sudden  fear  drew  pain  around  her  heart. 

"Say,  Mr.  Fisher,"  she  commenced  irresolutely. 

"My  name's  Hal !    Got  any  more  matches  ?" 

"All  right,  Hal.     I — er — "  she  hesitated  again. 

Fisher  waited,  puffing  at  his  little  corn-cob. 

"Why  don't  you  say  'well'  or  'yes'  or  something, 
when  I  begin  that  way?"  complained  Rosie. 

"I  thought  you'd  go  on  when  you  got  ready,"  was 
the  amused  answer. 

"Well,  you're  right,  I  am  ready,  and  I'm  going 
right  on  !  I  want  to  know  if  you  ever — play  cards  ?" 
Rosie  felt  a  little  bold  and  very  righteous. 

"When  I  get  a  chance,"  was  the  cool  retort. 

"Do  you  play  for  money?"  lowering  her  tones 
to  a  whisper  at  the  mention  of  that  iniquity. 

"Well,  what  on  earth  do  you  think  I  play  for?" 
he  demanded  with  real  amazement  in  his  face. 
"Marbles?  pins?" 

[105] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"Then  it's  true,"  moaned  Rosie,  her  worst  fears 
confirmed. 

"What's  true?"  He  had  never  seen  her  look  like 
this  before. 

"That  you  gamble — and  drink — not  just  a  little, 
but  a  lot,  and  go  to  that  Golden  Rule  place  and 
let  those  women  sell  you  chips,  and  you  bet,  and 
then  when  you  lose  you  get  drunk,  and  when  you 
win  you  get  drunk — Oh !  it's  awful — " 

"Now  lookee  here,  Rosie,"  Fisher  broke  in, 
annoyed  at  her  assumption  of  guardianship,  "I'm 
taking  care  of  you ;  you  needn't  worry  your  head 
about  me.  I'm  used  to  taking  life  just  as  I  find 
it,  and  I  haven't  Cared  much  so  far  whether  it  was 
dished  up  good  or  bad.  As  for  your  religious 
notions — well,  religion's  a  relish  I  haven't  found  on 
my  bill  of  fare  yet,  thank  you!"  He  knocked  the 
ashes  decisively  from  his  pipe.  "I'll  go  on  down 
for  the  mail  now.  There  comes  some  more  of  the 
boys,"  he  finished,  as  another  cloud  of  dust  swept 
down  the  road. 

"Where  have  they  all  been?"  asked  Rosie  list- 
lessly. 

"Oh — there's  been  a  lot  of  big  prospecting  parties 
gone  out  lately.  That's  all.  You  had  better  not 
come  down  to  camp  tonight.  Put  out  your  light 
pretty  early.  There's  likely  to  be  big  doings  at 
the  Golden  Rule." 

"Then  why  don't  you  stay  away?"  There  was 
a  look  of  yearning  in  her  face  as  she  watched  his 
careless  smiling  eyes. 

"Oh,  say,  I'm  not  wearing  petticoats  just  yet. 
[106] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

I'll  wave  if  there's  no  mail.  Goodbye."  And 
without  further  argument  he  left  her. 

But  all  the  way  down  the  hill,  the  memory  of  that 
hungry  little  smile  kept  cutting  into  his  heart. 
None  of  his  former  conscience  pricks  had  ever  bled 
like  this.  Ah,  well,  he  would  stop  at  Kingdom 
Come  and  drink  it  off. 

Rosie,  watching  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Rule  in 
the  valley  across  the  creek  grow  indistinct  in  the 
blending  twilight,  suddenly  became  possessed  of  a 
wild-cat  energy.  Before  Fisher  was  fairly  out  of 
sight,  she  was  loosening  the  tight  braids  of  her  hair, 
letting  her  glowing  curls  fall  in  rippling  lights  and 
shadows  around  her  shoulders.  Then  up  the  ladder 
built  in  the  wall,  she  climbed  to  the  half-boarded 
rafters,  pulled  out  from  under  the  roof  her  old  cotton 
bag  of  treasures,  and  hugged  it  ecstatically  for  a 
moment. 

From  the  edge  of  the  platform  she  sent  the 
precious  bundle  down  with  a  thud  to  the  floor.  One 
ancient  relic,  a  faded  pink  stocking,  escaped  from  the 
bulging  bag  as  it  landed  below. 

"Now,"  she  said,  peering  elfishly  out  over  the 
rafters,  and  apostrophizing  the  fallen  article,  "when 
I  get  you  on,  we'll  see  if  he  treats  us  like  a  kid, 
we  will !" 

By  the  time  Fisher  had  left  the  little  zigzag  path 
that  led  from  Rosie's  cabin,  all  the  returning  miners 
had  congregated  around  Bottles'  place,  waiting  for 
Hank  to  pass  out  the  mail.  It  was  already  eight 
o'clock,  and  they  were  all  more  or  less  impatient. 
[1071 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

"Hand  it  out,  Hank!  You're  slower  than  the 
seven  years,"  Measles  advised. 

"Expectin'  somethin'?"  inquired  Hank,  grinning. 
Measles  was  known  to  be  a  no-one  from  no-where. 

"No  trace  of  Blab,  eh?"  asked  Fisher  as  he  joined 
the  anxious  group  around  Hank. 

"Not  yit.  I  found  I'd  been  follerin'  Marty,  and 
Marty'd  been  follerin'  Jim,  so  we  all  cum  back 
together,"  reported  Mush,  late  pardner  of  Blabber. 

"A  package  and  a  letter,  both  for  me?"  Fisher 
exclaimed,  as  Hank  presented  him  with  a  dirty 
square  box  and  an  envelope.  Stepping  aside,  he 
eagerly  scanned  the  few  scrawled  words  that  Blab 
had  scribbled.  He  wrote  that  he  was  sending  back 
all  but  a  trifle  of  the  money  he  had  borrowed. 
Fisher  had  treated  him  so  white  he  felt  like  a 
skunk  to  sneak  off  and  take  the  boys'  dough.  Any- 
way the  fear  of  being  found  out  was  making  him 
lose  his  nerve.  And  besides,  he  wanted  Rosie.  He 
would  soon  be  able  to  make  up  the  rest  of  the  money 
he  owed  the  boys,  and  then  he  would  send  for  his 
sister.  He  asked  that  Fisher  tear  up  the  postmark 
of  the  letter.  (Rosie  must  not  know  yet  that  he 
had  written).  That  was  all. 

"Oh,"  Measles  was  orating,  as  Fisher  turned  back 
to  join  the  argumentative  group  gathered  around 
Hank,  "if  you'd  a  gone  on  down  the  Hill-town  road 
Hank,  you'd  found  the  dirty  runaway  for  all  o' 
Fisher.  His  eyesight  ain't  so  keen — " 

"My  ears  are,  though,  Measly,  old  boy,"  coolly 
interrupted  Fisher,  as  Measles  backed  away, 
abashed  at  being  overheard.  "And  some  of  my  ideas 
[108] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

aren't  so  far  off  either.  I  know  Blabber  was  a  weak 
one — weak  as  a  poodle !" 

"Never  could  lift  more'n  a  nut-pick  in  the  mine," 
assented  Mush. 

"But  he's  not  so  bad  as  some  I  know.  Here's 
your  savings  he's  sent  back."  Fisher's  cool  presen- 
tation of  the  box  prevented  an  immediate  explosion. 
The  boys  were  too  over-awed  at  the  unexpectedness 
of  it  to  raise  an  outcry. 

"Well,  I'll  be !"  said  Bottles,  breathing  hard, 

his  red  face  redder  with  emotion.  "If  he  wasn't  so 
blamed  weak  that  he  couldn't  hold  on  to  the  wad 
after  he  tuk  it !" 

The  laugh  that  followed  relieved  the  situation  of 
its  intensity,  and  with  a  whoop  of  relief  and  joy 
the  crowd  broke  up  and  paraded  noisily  over  to 
the  storehouse  to  deposit  their  restored  gold. 

Meanwhile  Fisher  stalked  up  to  the  hospitable 
door  of  the  "Golden  Rule."  So  Rosie  would  be 
going  to  her  brother,  would  she?  Then  she  would 
soon  recover  from  her  pretty  little  wish  to  reform 
her  brother's  friend.  Somehow  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  the  thought  of  her  leaving  Little 
Kingdom — but  assuredly  this  was  no  place  for  such 
a  charmingly  innocent  child. 

Stepping  into  the  back  room,  where  the  tables 
were  ready  for  the  evening's  play,  Fisher  stopped 
suddenly  in  the  doorway,  staring  in  stupefaction  at 
one  of  the  three  occupants  of  the  room.  Millie  and 
Hannah  were  at  their  accustomed  places  behind  the 
tables,  but  who  was  that  third  woman  sitting  back 
of  the  other  "lay-out" — that  curly-haired  girl  with 
[109] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

the  foam-white  shoulders  and  the  tapering  arms? 
Every  line,  from  the  curve  of  her  bodice,  where  the 
red  silk  of  her  dress  hung  limply  to  her  softly 
rounded  figure,  to  her  little  slippered  foot,  was  fem- 
inine grace.  Beneath  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  not 
quite  ankle  length,  several  inches  of  pink  stocking 
were  boldly  visible.  Fisher's  emotions  were 
kaleidoscopic.  At  first  all  he  realized  was  that 
this  stunningly  beautiful  woman  was  Rosie, — his 
little  girl-boy  Rosie.  Then  when  he  remembered 
where  she  was,  and  what  it  meant  for  her  to  be 
there,  he  strode  up  impetuously  behind  her.  "Girl 
alive,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  in  her  ear,  "what  are 
you  doing  here?" 

Rosie  turned  with  a  start.  Then  seeing  Fisher's 
face  close  to  her  own  and  the  other  women  watching 
jealously,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  affectedly. 
"Selling  chips,  of  course.  How  many?" 

She  began  to  count  out  a  pile.  Fisher  brushed 
them  aside  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand,  and  viciously 
dashed  to  the  floor  the  kerosene  lamp.  It  sputtered 
convulsively  for  a  few  minutes,  and  went  out.  In 
the  darkness  that  followed,  a  bewildered  little  girl 
was  picked  up  in  two  strong  arms  and  carried  bodily 
through  the  side  door.  Over  the  bridge  and  on  up 
the  trail  toward  Blab  Draymer's  cabin,  Fisher 
silently  bore  her. 

Rosie,  realizing  that  her  plan  had  succeeded,  was 
too  happy  to  speak.  Finally  when  they  reached 
the  steep  slope  of  the  hill,  and  she  could  feel 
Fisher's  heart  pounding  against  her  shoulder,  she 
demurred — 

[110] 


LITTLE  KINGDOM 

"Please  put  me  down  !     You'll  kill  yourself!" 

"I  almost  wish  I  could,"  he  panted,  putting  her 
gently  on  her  feet  beside  him. 

"Why,  Hal !"  she  remonstrated. 

"Oh,  girl,  you  don't  know  how  it  made  me  feel 
to  see  you  there.  I  couldn't  stand  it !  I  realized 
all  of  a  sudden  when  I  saw  you  sitting  in  that 
hell  hole  that  I  was  the  blackest  sinner  on  earth  to 
fool  around  in  places  where  I  couldn't  bear  to  have 
you  be ;  and  now  I  only  know  this  much,  Rosie,  that 
you're  an  angel  of  heaven  come  down  on  earth 
to  make  me  happy  and  keep  me  decent.  I  love 
you.  Isn't  that  religion  enough  for  a  sinner?"  He 
held  out  his  arms  to  her.  Then,  as  a  different  phase 
of  her  action  flashed  hideously  through  his  mind, 
he  held  her  back  away  from  him. 

"But,  Rosie,  you  didn't  really  intend — you  didn't 
mean — ?"  He  almost  shook  her  as  he  demanded 
the  truth.  "Oh,  don't  you  know  what  those 
women  — " 

"Hush !"  she  commanded,  "I  had  my  pistol  in  my 
belt!  Isn't  that  proof  that  I  was  pretending?  I 
only  wanted  to  show  you  that  I  wasn't  a  kid  and 
that  you — loved  me,  Hal."  She  laid  her  head  against 
his  arm. 

"Thank  God !  And  now  I'm  going  to  show  it  to 
you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  dear."  Stooping,  he 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  for  the  first  time. 


Ill 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

By  HELEN  CAMPBELL 

Dramatis  Persona. 
MAXTON. 
MARCIA. 
HER  MOTHER. 
THE  GREAT  MUSICIAN. 
Scene — The  terrace  of  Villa  Saleraia. 
Time — The  August  moon. 

[The  terrace  overlooks  the  fountained  gardens  of 
Saleraia.  On  the  left  are  the  wide  piazzas  of  the 
villa,  and  on  the  right,  across  the  rear  corner  of  the 
stage,  is  a  tall  yew  hedge,  with  a  heavy  gate  in  the 
centre.  Showing  over  the  top  of  the  hedge  is  the 
marble  roof  of  a  terrace-arbor,  while  in  the  fore- 
ground, at  the  right  of  the  gate  in  the  hedge,  are  a 
rounded  stone  bench,  a  low  stone  table,  and  a  broad 
pedestaled  sundial.  The  only  light  is  from  the  great 
moon,  rising  behind  the  poplars.] 
Enter  MAXTON  and  MARCIA,  crossing  slowly  from 
the  edge  of  the  terrace  to  the  stone  bench. 

Marcia.  So  you  came  all  the  way  from  Berlin  just 
for  this — just  to  say  the  same  old  things  about 
Rodney.  And  all  the  time  you  knew  exactly  how  I 
felt  about  it. 

Maxton.  Only  from  your  letters ;  and  don't  you  see, 
Marcia,  I  couldn't  believe  that  you  fully  understood 
how  it  happened  when  you  wrote  the  way  you  did. 
I  thought  that  if  we  could  talk  it  over,  if  I  could 
explain  to  you  just  what  he  did  and  why — and  that  it 
[112] 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

wasn't  the  way  the  newspapers  said,  you  might  change 
your  mind  and — well — do  the  right  thing  by  him. 

Marcia.  You  mean — forgive  him?  Oh,  no,  Max. 
I  can't,  he  is  a  failure ! 

Maxton.  But  he  is  your  brother,  and  can't  you  see, 
Marcia,  he's  young,  and  lots  of  things  happen  like  that 
in  the  service,  and  he's  all  cut  up  about  it — it  can  be 
paid  back,  you  know,  and  he  wants  to  do  the  right 
thing.  All  he  needs  now  is  the  word  from  you — just 
impetus. 

Marcia.  See,  you  have  acknowledged  it ;  he  is  weak, 
weak  as — starlight  [she  makes  a  motion  towards  the 
moon]  and  forgiveness  only  makes  a  weak  man 
weaker. 

Maxton  (curiously).     And  a  strong  man? 

Marcia.  Oh,  a  strong  man  doesn't  need  it.  If  he 
makes  a  mistake  he  wants  to  stand  alone  against  the 
wideness  of  the  universe — it's  part  of  the  retribution, 
part  of  his  discipline  and  strength ;  it  is  his  armor  and 
his  sword  in  one.  You  think  I  don't  understand 
Rodney,  that  I  am  hard  and  unsympathetic?  But 
Max,  it  is  you  who  misunderstand.  Yes,  yes,  I  know 
what  inseparable  friends  you  and  he  have  been  ever 
since  the  bob-sled  days,  but  you  have  always  judged 
him  by  standards  that  were  far  too  high.  You  were 
mistaken  when  you  thought  he  could  succeed  in  the 
diplomatic  service — just  because  you  had.  It  wasn't 
the  place  for  a  man  like  Rodney. 

Maxton.     But,    Marcia,    this    one   thing   isn't   big 

enough  to  prove  that  absolutely.    He  may  succeed  yet. 

He  has  the  courage  to  pull  himself  up  out  of  the  hole, 

and  he'd  do  it,  too,  if  only  he  didn't  get  to  thinking  of 

[113] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

how  you'd  feel  about  it,  for  he  gets  morbid  then  and — 
slips  back. 

Marcia  (in  a  far-away  voice).  You  mean  that  I 
push  him  back, — that  I  stand  at  the  top  and  push  him 
back? 

Maxton.  No,  oh,  no;  you  just  don't  give  him  a 
pull  over  the  edge,  which  would  be  a  very  small  thing 
to  do. 

Marcia.  Small?  Oh,  but  I  can't  believe  your 
scales  any  more.  You  manage  to  make  everything 
seem  small  [slowly],  even  this  thing  that  Rodney  has 
done, — this  dishonorable  thing  that  drags  down  the 
name  that  for  centuries  long  has  never  touched  dis- 
honor [she  sits  down  on  the  broad  base  of  the  sun- 
dial], the  name  that  Rodney  ought  to  be  making  more 
glorious — 

Maxton.  There — that  is  what  makes  your  lack  of 
sympathy,  yours  more  than  any  other,  so  unbearable. 
He  understands  it  now,  that  of  all  the  members  of  the 
family  he  has  wronged  you  the  most,  because  none  of 
the  others  cherish  that — the  family  honor — as  intensely 
as  you  do. 

Marcia.  Yes,  he  has  hurt  a  very  precious  posses- 
sion of  mine,  the  second  most  precious  that  I  have, 
Max. 

A  Deep  Voice  (from  the  arbor  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hedge).  No,  it  was  many  years  ago,  and  the  boy 
was  very  young.  Perhaps  you  won't  like  the  story, 
for  it  is  sad — 

Her  Mother  (appearing  on  the  piazza,  calls  softly). 
Marcia !  Marcia !  [The  girl  shrinks  back  behind  the 
sundial,  and  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  hides  the  man.] 
[114] 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

Mar  da  (in  a  whisper).  Sh-h,  Max,  don't  move,  I 
couldn't  bear  to  go  in  now,  with  the  world  so  topsy- 
turvy— 

Her  Mother  (to  some  one  inside  the  room).  Max- 
ton  said  they  would  be  on  the  upper  terrace,  right 
here.  They  ought  to  come  in  now,  for  the  music  will 
begin  soon,  as  soon  as  Signor  returns  from  the 
garden.  Maxton!  No,  they  are  not  there.  [She 
reenters  the  house.] 

The  Voice  (which  has  not  stopped  at  all).  Sad 
because  it  happened  to  a  boy  who  lived  alone  in  a  land 
of  visions,  of  drifting  rainbows — 

Marcia  (softly).  Oh,  it  is  the  Great  Musician!  I 
have  not  seen  him  yet,  but  I  heard  his  voice  when  he 
came  this  afternoon.  [They  listen  quite  shamelessly, 
as  if  his  words  were  his  music.] 

The  Voice.  Of  starlit  caverns,  and  meadows  white 
with  clouds  of  daisies,  and  for  a  long  time  no  one 
knocked  at  the  gate  at  the  end  of  his  lane  of  enchant- 
ment. But  the  boy  was  happy,  because  everything 
had  its  song  for  him,  the  leaves  and  the  bees  and  the 
streams  and  the  daisies — and  the  one  passion  of  his 
soul  was  sound,  and  the  dearest  possession  of  his  life — 
his  harp.  At  last  one  morning  some  one  came  to  the 
gate  and  knocked.  It  was  a  man,  the  boy's  brother, 
and  the  reason  he  had  never  been  there  before  was  that 
he  had  never  needed  the  boy  until  then.  Now,  he  took 
the  boy's  harp  and  closed  the  gate  and  went  away 
into  the  world  to  turn  the  harp  into  gold  to  satisfy  his 
selfish  cravings.  Then  the  loneliness  of  ages  fell  upon 
the  boy,  because  the  unsung  music  in  his  soul — unsung 
because  his  harp  was  gone — grew  to  be  too  great  a 
[115] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

burden  to  bear,  and  even  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the 
fountain  made  him  sad,  because  he  could  not  answer. 
So  one  day  the  boy  went  down  the  long  lane,  un- 
latched the  gate,  and  started  out  into  the  highway  to 
seek  his  brother.  He  thought  that  when  he  found 
him  the  harp  would  be  his  own  once  more,  and  the 
universe  would  sing  again,  but  he  didn't  know  life,  you 
see — that  is  why  it  all  happened.  Yes,  he  found  the 
man,  but  the  harp  was  gone,  and  his  brother  put  him 
in  a  cold,  dark  life  where  the  sound  was  only  a  dead- 
ened moan.  When  the  boy  had  a  chance  he  ran  away 
from  it  all,  and  started  down  the  world  to  find  his 
harp.  Mile  after  mile  he  traveled,  until  one  day  he 
found  it  in  the  hut  of  a  miserable  old  man  who  had 
stores  of  other  people's  treasures,  each  one  labeled 
with  the  shadow  of  a  heartbreak.  Then  the  boy  sat 
down  on  the  doorstep  of  the  hovel  and  would  not  leave 
until  he  should  have  his  harp  again,  and  finally  the 
old  man  said  he  might  have  it  for  the  service  of  a  year 
and  a  day.  So  the  boy  drew  water  and  cut  fagots  for 
the  old  man  for  a  year  and  a  day,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  he  went  down  the  path  into  the  singing  world 
again,  for  his  harp  was  under  his  arm.  As  he  walked 
he  loved  everything,  even  the  drifting  withered  leaves, 
and  the  old  stone  wall  around  the  meadows,  and  the 
brother  who  had  tried  to  crush  out  the  music  of  his 
life.  He  was  going  back  to  the  land  of  visions,  but 
first  he  wanted  to  see  his  brother  to  tell  him  about  his 
good  fortune.  You  see,  he  was  very  young  and  didn't 
understand  things  or  he  wouldn't  have  done  that,  for 
when  he  entered  the  home  of  his  brother  an  unbeliev- 
able thing  happened.  Yes,  standing  right  there  on 
[116] 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

his  own  hearth,  the  brother  snatched  the  harp,  and 
dashed  it  against  the  chimney-piece  so  that  it  broke 
into  a  thousand  pieces — so  small  that  the  largest  piece 
was  lost  in  the  smallest  crack  between  the  hearth- 
stones. [There  is  a  long  pause.  A  nightingale  begins 
to  sing,  below  in  the  garden.] 

The  Voice  (a  little  farther  away).  You  really  want 
to  have  the  rest  of  the  story?  He  isn't  the  same  boy 
any  longer — no  longer  a  dweller  in  the  Land  of 
Visions,  but  a  being  consumed  by  a  mighty  hatred, 
which  all  of  a  sudden  makes  itself  the  center  of  his  life 
[the  voice  grows  gradually  fainter],  and  pushes  him 
off  into  the  torrent  of  humanity — the  boy  who  before 
had  known  only  the  shadow  of  the  world.  [The  sound 
of  the  voice  is  lost;  so  is  the  sound  of  footsteps  de- 
scending the  terrace  steps.] 

Marcia  (after  a  long  silence).  Why  did  he  go?  It 
is  too  wonderful  a  story  to  have  no —  [She  stops 
abruptly,  for  from  the  lower  garden  come  the  notes 
of  the  violin,  faint  but  clear  as  the  nightingale's — 
sometimes  like  the  rustle  of  moonbeams,  sometimes 
like  icicles  on  a  fragrant  pine  branch,  and  again  like  a 
storm-cloud  over  the  sun.] 

Marcia  (wonderingly).     It  is  the  end  of  the  story! 

Maxton,     Yes,  it  is  the  end  of  the  story. 

Marcia.  Do  you  hear  ?  The  boy  is  strong  now  and 
famous,  and  the  brother,  oh,  he  has  changed — his  re- 
morse is  unquenchable,  and  he  does  his  very  best  in 
the  world.  But  they  never  see  each  other,  the  boy 
does  not  forgive — no,  oh,  no,  Max,  he  can't,  for  if  he 
did  the  balance  could  not  be  kept.  Remorse  is  the  only 
thing  that  makes  the  brother  live  rightly — if  he  were 
[117] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

forgiven  his  sole  impetus  would  be  gone.  The  boy  has 
much  of  his  old  nature — love — left,  and  he  wants  to 
help  the  man,  and  he  is  wise  enough  to  see  that  this 
unrelenting  silence  is  the  only  thing,  and  he  is  strong 
enough  to  maintain  it  even — 

Maxton.  No,  Marcia,  it  isn't  strength,  you  are 
wrong — it  is  absolute  selfishness,  and  that  is  weakness 
incarnate,  not  to  be  able  to  get  beyond  oneself.  Listen 
again,  Marcia.  Yes,  the  boy  is  strong  now,  I  acknowl- 
edge, but  there  is  no  unrelenting  silence;  the  two  are 
working  together,  and  the  elder  brother  cannot  work 
hard  enough  to  be  worthy  of  the  bigness  of  the 
younger,  who  is  strong  because  he  is  crushing  out  his 
hatred,  and  has  set  up  a  common  goal  for  them  to 
strive  for — conquest  of  self.  Don't  you  understand  ? 

Marcia.     No,  I  don't  understand. 

Maxton.  Do  you  want  to  know  why?  [The 
music  stops.]  It  is  because  your  whole  life  has  been 
a  series  of  beautiful  pictures,  with  backgrounds — like 
this,  and  filled  with  people  that  the  whole  world  strives 
to  know — you  do  not  understand — you  have  seen  only 
the  shadow  of  the  world. 

Marcia.  Only  the  shadow  of  the  world !  Oh,  Max, 
do  you  think  that  of  me?  [Her  voice  changes.] 
Then,  I'm  glad  you  came,  glad  that  I  know,  glad  that 
Rodney  plunged  us  into  all  this  unhappiness — before, 
before  September,  because  now  I  know  what  you  really 
mean  to  me  and  what  I  mean  to  you.  Yes,  you  will 
always  be  to  me  just  Rodney's  friend,  and  to  you  I 
will  be  merely  his  unrelenting,  unsympathetic — 

Maxton  (very  quietly).  No,  Marcia,  this  is  not 
going  to  make  the  least  difference  in  the  world.  I,  too, 
[118] 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

am  glad  I  came,  but  sorry  that  I  spoke  of  Rodney — we 
never  shall  again,  never — 

Marcia.  But  that  wouldn't  help  at  all,  for  I  know 
how  you  feel  about  it,  and  you  know  how  I  feel,  so 
there  would  always  be  that  great  gray  cloud — oh, 
Max,  I  want  you  to  go  away,  ever  so  far,  now — now, 
for  I  don't  want  to  see  you  for  a  long,  long,  long 
time —  [She  sinks  down  on  the  stone  bench,  with  her 
head  buried  in  her  arms  on  the  table.] 

Maxton  (with  a  quiet  smile).  You  don't  want  to 
see  me  again  for  a  long  time?  [He  puts  out  his  hand 
to  touch  her  hair,  but  suddenly  drops  it,  and  walks 
over  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace.  Footsteps  are  heard 
ascending  the  terrace  steps.  Marcia  hears  nothing.] 

The  Voice  (from  the  other  side  of  the  hedge).  If 
you  had  rather  not  go  in  yet,  I  will  come  for  you  here 
after  this  number.  Yes,  it  is  to  be  the  concerto.  [The 
gate  opens  and  the  Great  Musician  enters,  his  violin 
under  his  arm.  He  starts  to  walk  across  to  the  villa, 
but  catches  sight  of  the  girl  and  stops.] 

Marcia  (without  looking  up,  mistakes  him  for 
Maxton).  And  you  want  me  to  forgive  him  even 
though  every  fibre  of  my  being  cries  out  against  it, 
even  though  I  do  not  consider  him  worthy  of  forgive- 
ness, believing  that  it  will  do  more  harm  than  good — 

The  Great  Musician  (gently,  after  a  long  pause). 
Forgiveness  is  a  very  small  thing  to  give,  and  it  never 
harms — 

Marcia  (springing  to  her  feet).  Oh — I  did  not 
know — I  am  so  sorry — 

The  Great  Musician  (quickly).  It  is  I  who  should 
be  sorry.  I  should  not  have  spoken,  but  I  wanted  to 
[1191 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

help — there  was  the  sadness  of  centuries  in  your 
voice. 

Marcia.  You  can  help,  oh,  you  can  help  so  much — 
tell  me,  did  the  boy  of  the  Land  of  Visions  forgive 
the  brother,  who  tried  to  crush  the  music  out  of 
his  life  ?  You  see,  we  listened — Max  and  I — and  Max 
says  it  was  the  right  and  the  great  thing  for  him  to 
do — to  forgive. 

The  Great  Musician.  I  wish  I  might  tell  you  that 
he  did  forgive — but  he  did  not. 

Marcia  (with  a  quick  breath).  Oh — I  knew,  I 
knew — 

The  Great  Musician.  Wait,  wait,  my  child,  you  do 
not  understand.  He  did  not  forgive,  and  that  is  the 
real  sadness  of  the  story.  You  see,  he  was  not  man 
enough;  he  did  not  know  the  meaning,  the  glow  of 
humanity — he  was  only  a  dreamer  after  all,  and  when 
he  had  the  chance  to  become  a  man  he  let  it  slip. 

Marcia  (softly).    And  the  brother? 

The  Great  Musician.  That  was  it.  The  boy  was 
famous  and  rich,  and  he  stood  aloof  on  the  hill  and 
watched  the  brother  descend,  descend  into  the  Valley 
of  Lost  Hopes — and  three  times  the  brother  turned 
back  and  called  to  the  boy  for  help — 

Marcia.    Could  he  have  helped? 

The  Great  Musician.  He  was  the  only  one  who 
could!  [Maxton  has  gradually  moved  nearer  to  the 
two,  and  now  stands  just  behind  Marcia.]  Oh,  my 
child,  do  not  believe  that  any  one  is  unworthy  of  for- 
giveness, or  that  it  will  do  any  harm — it  is  the  only 
thing. 

Marcia  (slowly).  It  is  the  only  thing.  [The  Great 
[120] 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

Musician  moves  silently  towards  the  villa,  and  the  girl 
stands  with  her  face  in  the  shadow.] 

Maxton  (quietly).  Did  the  end  of  the  story  help, 
Marcia? 

Marcia  (turning  so  that  the  moonlight  shows  the  ra- 
diance in  her  face).  Yes,  oh,  yes ;  it  has  made  a  beau- 
tiful new  one  begin  for  me ! 


[121] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

By  SIDNEY  N.  HILLYARD 

HE  university  shall  qualify  students  for  per- 
sonal  success  and  direct  usefulness  in  life." 
This  desire  on  the  part  of  the  founders  of 
Stanford  University  may  be  said  to  constitute  the  prin- 
cipal object  of  this  and  almost  every  other  educational 
institution.  Notwithstanding  occasional  and  regret- 
ted failures  in  the  individual  careers  of  many  college 
graduates,  the  most  pessimistic  observer  must  admit 
that  the  American  educational  institutions  are  doing 
their  utmost  to  bring  about  the  personal  success 
of  their  men  and  their  women.  And  this  is  well. 
For  if  there  is  one  disease  more  than  another  against 
which  a  youth  should  be  rigorously  vaccinated,  it 
is  failure,  and  of  failures,  the  early  failure  to  do 
good  work  is  the  worst  failure  of  all.  The  man 
to  whom  his  university  has  given  the  power  to  work 
successfully  is  the  man  who  brings  satisfaction  to 
himself  both  in  that  work  and  outside  of  it,  and  he 
is  the  man  who  may  most  safely  be  relied  upon  to 
succeed  in  all  his  later  life.  His  family  and  friends 
are  the  better  and  the  happier  that  this  man  has 
achieved  in  part  something  which  he  set  out  to 
achieve;  his  state  and  his  country  are  stronger, 
richer,  and  wiser  in  possessing  him  as  a  citizen. 

That     which    the    church,     even     with    all     its 

uncounted    shortcomings,    with    all    its   bigotry,    was 

to  the  medievalism  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the 

university  is  to  the  modernism  of  today.     The  boy 

[122] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

looks  toward  it,  the  man  back  to  it,  while  between 
them,  the  student  within  its  chastening  halls,  lives, 
during  his  short  four  years,  a  life  in  miniature.  To 
the  universities  flows  the  living  stream  of  the 
country's  growing  intellect,  and  from  them  the  stream 
returns  to  the  country,  intellect  yet,  but  electrified 
with  purpose  and  with  force.  Hardly  a  day  but 
some  instant  question  turns  the  face  of  the  people 
expectant  to  the  colleges,  and,  wise  or  foolish,  true 
or  false,  the  college  is  there  with  as  instant  an 
answer  on  the  tip  of  its  tongue.  Campus  or  cathe- 
dral, a  crypt  or  an  assembly  hall — the  world  will 
have  a  shrine  for  its  enquiries ;  if  this  be  so  then 
the  vital  nature  of  the  relationship  between  univer- 
sity and  state  cannot  be  over-emphasized,  -and  "to 
bring  these  two  into  a  new  and  never-failing  under- 
standing of  each  other  will  constitute  the  most  bene- 
ficial thing  which  can  happen  to  either. 

The  most  important  official  position  in  America 
today  is  the  presidency  of  Harvard  University.  A 
list  of  the  six  men  most  thoroughly  representative  of 
all  that  is  best  in  the  life  of  the  American  people 
at  this  time  would  be  an  enumeration  of  the  presi- 
dents of  our  six  principal  colleges.  We  have  had 
no  one  in  the  White  House  whose  life  is  worth  an 
hour's  remembrance,  from  Lincoln  to  Roosevelt,  and 
both  of  these  came  there  by  accident.  But  the  chairs 
of  our  great  institutions  of  learning  are  filled  by 
men  who  have  done  something  to  which  America  is 
not  ashamed  that  Europe  and  the  world  shall  point. 

In  wrealth,  in  prestige,  in  influence,  in  her  physical, 
moral,  intellectual  and  spiritual  force,  the  university 
[123] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

is  the  church  of  the  twentieth  century ;  her  students 
succeed  and  are  useful,  and  where  they  are  not  is 
no  civilization ;  but  wherever  the  foot  of  progress  lays 
its  ineradicable  stamp  there  is  the  college  man  with 
the  transit  and  the  microscope,  with  book  and  pen, 
quietly  giving  his  generation  to  perceive  that  the 
money  which  it  has  sunk  in  the  classroom  is  return- 
ing with  interest  from  the  forest  and  the  plain. 

In  all  this  the  universities  of  America  are  success- 
ful— let  who  will  cry  that  the  street  gamin  who  never 
had  an  hour's  schooling  in  his  life  makes  finally  the 
strongest  man.  For,  as  we  have  said,  the  world 
is  very  rapidly  coming  to  be  organized  and  operated 
at  the  direction  of  its  college  men,  and  few  are  the 
names  springing  into  the  national  horizon  today 
which  are  unconnected  with  some  place  of  learning, 
whether  it  be  classic  Harvard,  or  the  little  Bap- 
tist seminary  with  a  faculty  of  seven  and  an  enroll- 
ment of  eighty-six  provincial  but  hopeful  souls. 

But  the  foundations  of  Stanford  and  of  many 
other  universities  have,  written  into  their  charters 
and  into  their  responsibilities,  another  and  widely 
important  side.  In  distinct  addition  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  art  of  success  in  the  individual,  we  find 
that  very  many  of  our  colleges  were  organized  with 
the  intent  that  they  should  "assist  in  the  advance- 
ment of  useful  knowledge,  in  the  dissemination  and 
practical  application  of  the  same." 

This  is  being  done  by  Stanford  every  day.  In  her 
laboratories  her  men  of  research  are  laboring  long 
hours  for  the  advancement  of  science,  quite  irrespec- 
tive of  and  without  reference  to  personal  reward, 
[124] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

or  to  the  immediate  gratification  of  any  one  or  of  any 
institution.  They  are  "applying  and  disseminating 
useful  knowledge,"  which  will  bear  its  fruit  in 
unknown  and  hidden  ways,  in  distant  corners  of  the 
East  and  West,  today,  and  in  many  years  to  come. 

But  while  Stanford  and  the  American  university 
are  succeeding  truly  in  bringing  about  individual 
achievement,  and  while  they  are  equally  successful 
in  the  discovery  and  dissemination  of  scientific 
knowledge,  can  the  same  success  be  attributed  to 
them  in  their  efforts  toward  the  dissemination  of  a 
knowledge  of  the  arts? 

As  regards  the  present  time  the  answer  to  this 
question  will  have  to  be  given  in  the  negative,  for 
no  college  is  attempting  to  spread  its  knowledge 
of  the  arts  abroad  by  all  the  means  open  to  it. 

Let  us  consider  what  these  arts  are,  and  how  their 
dissemination  abroad  might  be  achieved  with 
greater  catholicity  and  universality  than  is  now  any- 
where the  case.  We  will  take  the  drama,  instru- 
mental and  vocal  music,  literature,  government,  and 
craftsmanship;  meanwhile  realizing  that  these  sub- 
jects do  not  by  any  means  exhaust  the  category 
of  the  creative  arts. 

The  modern  stage  has  become  the  private  pos- 
session of  a  few  gentlemen  of  great  business  parts, 
whose  genius,  as  that  of  Mr.  Frohman  or  Mr. 
Belasco,  consists  in  knowing  what  plays  will,  and 
what  plays  will  not,  pay.  They  do  not  pretend, 
neither  does  anyone  pretend  for  them,  that  their 
business  is  a  "dissemination  of  a  knowledge  and  an 
understanding  of  the  arts."  As  the  speculator  in 
[125] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

wheat  futures  on  a  margin  knows  nothing  of  plow- 
ing, so  the  proprietors  of  the  modern  theatre  know 
and  care  nothing  about  art.  And  there  is  no  one 
left  to  care.  No  one?  Yes,  there  is  some  one; 
there  is  the  university.  The  university  was  insti- 
tuted to  care  about  these  things.  She  truly  teaches 
the  greatness  of  the  drama  in  her  classrooms,  but 
once  her  students  escape  out  into  the  world,  away 
from  the  sound  of  her  voice,  they  hear  no  more  of 
any  idealism  connected  with  the  theatres  to  which 
they  go,  but  only  of  successful  sex-problem  plays. 
Thus  much  of  the  work  of  our  educators  is  frittered 
away  in  the  great  unthinking  world. 

Every  university  produces  upon  its  own  stage, 
at  one  time  or  another,  dramas  written  out  of  a 
knowledge  of  humanity  and  for  the  sake  of  art. 
Sometimes  the  acting  is  done  well  and  truthfully  in 
these,  but  unfortunately  it  is  only  done  once — the 
curtain  falls  and  the  cast  disbands.  But  why  should 
this  be  so?  The  dramatic  art  is  an  integral  part  of 
the  life  of  the  people,  as  much  as  is  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  skeleton  of  a  pterodactyl ;  and  the  college 
theatre  should,  and  very  easily  could,  make  itself  a 
center  to  which  would  come  very  much  more  than 
the  college  audience — "The  world  would  make  a 
pathway  to  its  door."  The  professional  companies 
produce  no  plays  for  the  sake  of  art ;  then  let  well- 
trained  university  actors  do  so,  not  only  for  the 
sake  of  art,  but  for  that  of  the  people  of  the  state, 
of  their  college  and  of  themselves.  Organized  by 
the  university,  the  university  theatre  would  be  a 
financial  success,  for  the  participants  would  not 
[126] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

have  to  be  paid  in  anything  else  than  university 
credit,  and  the  expenses  would  never  be  so  great  as 
are  those  of  companies  touring  the  whole  country. 
The  plan,  however,  would  have  to  be  inaugurated 
not  for  money  but  for  the  purpose  of  the  "dissem- 
ination of  a  knowledge  of  the  dramatic  art." 

In  comparing  the  musical  standards  of  our  univer- 
sities with  those  of  certain  much  more  obscure  and 
humble  places,  it  might  be  remembered  that  in  some 
of  the  little  villages  of  the  old  world  there  are  to 
be  found  prize  brass  bands  which  would  hardly  dis- 
credit a  Wagnerian  festival,  and  prize  vocal  unions 
which  do  bring  credit  to  the  greatest  choral  fes- 
tivals of  Europe.  Weavers,  spinners,  and  coal- 
heavers,  exploiting  the  marvelous  wealth  of  unac- 
companied part-song  compositions  which  lies  free 
and  ready  to  hand,  are  producing  what  some  critics 
say  is  the  very  greatest  music  which  up  to  now  has 
been  possible  of  attainment  anywhere ;  and  it  is 
done,  not  for  money,  but  for  the  actual  joy  and 
pleasure  which  comes  from  the  "dissemination  of  a 
knowledge  of  great  art."  These  brass  bands  and 
these  vocal  societies  perform  at  home,  and  they  go 
abroad  also,  while  in  the  majority  of  our  colleges  and 
centers  of  learning  we  do  neither.  Our  music  is  at 
the  lowest  ebb  conceivable  amongst  an  educated 
people,  but  the  lowness  of  its  ebb  is  of  small  signifi- 
cance compared  with  the  fact  that  the  average  col- 
lege graduate  does  not  care  whether  or  not  he  under- 
stands anything  at  all  about  high-class  music  and 
high-class  art.  And  as  the  graduate,  so  the  citizen. 
The  tour  of  a  small  glee  club  has  little  to  do  with 
[127] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

music,  but,  contrasted  with  this,  a  union  of  a 
thousand  voices  in  choral  part-singing  from  the 
universities  of  California  and  of  Stanford,  in  San 
Francisco  or  at  the  universities  themselves,  every 
year,  would  do  more  toward  disseminating  a  real 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  music  than  twenty-five  years 
of  lecturing  upon  the  subject  will  ever  do, — and  we 
are  generally  very  short  of  even  lectures  upon  the 
theory  and  the  understanding  of  music.  The  univer- 
sity orchestras  of  America  should  stand  on  a  par 
with  the  regimental  bands  in  her  army;  they  should 
be  a  pride  to  the  college  and  a  much-sought  boon 
to  the  state,  and  they  could  do  an  incalculable  ser- 
vice in  the  dissemination  of  a  knowledge  of  the  great 
art  of  music. 

No  one  of  whom  we  have  any  knowledge  pre- 
tends that  the  daily  press  of  our  cities  represents  the 
best  view  and  feeling  of  our  people.  Would  it  not 
be  possible  then  for  the  universities  of  the  country 
to  publish  daily  or  even  weekly  sheets  which  should  do 
so,  and  which  should  be  free  from  every  taint  of  the  low 
ideals  and  the  corruption  of  the  national  press? 
Have  the  colleges  not  enough  instructors,  students 
and  money  to  embark  upon  such  a  project?  And 
in  answering  this  question  it  must  be  remembered 
that  a  great  deal  of  the  work  could  be  done  by  the 
students  for  university  credit  at  no  cost  whatever 
to  the  paper.  Neither  would  the  initial  monetary 
risk  need  to  be  as  large  as  might  be -supposed,  if  it 
were  found  that  the  classes  of  people  who  favor  pure 
government,  and  university  alumni  and  their  friends, 
supported  the  publication. 

[128] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

We  feel  convinced  that  institutions  situated  like 
Harvard,  Columbia,  Chicago,  or  the  University  of 
California  at  least  could  do  this  thing,  and  in 
doing  it,  and  in  doing  it  successfully,  they  would 
bring  great  strength  to  themselves,  their  instruc- 
tors, and  their  students,  and  much  dissemination 
of  good  literature  to  the  outside  world.  The 
university  press,  operated  by  a  department  of 
journalism,  would  be  the  most  powerful  possible 
means  for  the  instruction  of  students,  yes,  and  of 
the  faculty  of  the  department  too.  It  would  be  the 
laboratory  of  the  English  department,  and  men 
working  in  it  would  feel  themselves  to  be  in  the 
world,  and  to  be  serving  the  state  as  much  as  any 
salaried  journalist  in  the  country.  Such  a  press 
could  give  news  without  taint,  editorials  without 
gutter  politics,  advertisements  without  filth,  and 
ideas  without  fear  of  bosses,  corporations,  or  walk- 
ing delegates. 

No  university  would  care  to  mix  its  name  up  in 
such  politics  as  we  see  around  us  every  day,  even  if 
it  were  allowed  to  do  so.  Politics  has  an  evil  name. 
But  politics  has  not  necessarily  anything  to  do  with 
the  art  of  government.  Most  politicians  know 
nothing  whatever  of  that  art,  and  care  about  it  only 
as  it  serves  their  interests;  and  the  best  govern- 
ments are  those  which  are  the  freest  from  the 
scourge  of  politicians.  The  question  then  is,  are 
our  universities  fulfilling  their  duty  to  the  state 
in  ignoring  the  manner  of  the  making  of  laws,  and 
in  doing  nothing  whatever  to  disseminate  a  practical 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  government? 
F1291 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

The  present  mayor  of  Palo  Alto  is  a  Stanford 
professor,  yet  probably  very  few  in  the  university 
know  or  care  what  his  political  affiliations  are, 
or  even  if  he  has  any  at  all.  Why  then,  should 
not  Stanford  run  such  a  man  for  mayor  of  San 
Francisco,  and  some  member  of  our  Economics 
department  for  governor  of  the  state? 

"Oh,"  says  the  college,  "they  would  never  be 
elected." 

That  question  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The 
universities  complain  loudly  of  the  corruption  in  our 
cities,  and  many  of  our  faculty  are  wearing  the 
"League  of  Justice"  button,  but  yet  we  do  nothing 
whatever  to  absolve  ourselves  from  our  share  of  the 
responsibility.  Now  if  every  university  ran  a 
strictly  non-political,  non-partisan,  good-govern- 
ment man  for  mayor  of  the  city  or  governor  of  the 
state,  then  at  least  the  world  would  no  longer  be 
able  to  do  as  it  does  now, — point  the  finger  of  scorn 
at  us  as  at  those  who  can  not,  or  dare  not,  or  at  all 
events  do  not,  do  anything  towards  purifying  our 
national  life.  On  the  contrary,  the  universities 
would  then  be  able  to  point  back  the  finger,  saying, 
"We  put  up  our  man  for  the  purpose  of  dissem- 
inating a  knowledge  of  the  art  of  government,  and 
you  have  voted  him  down;  what  else  can  we  do? 
You  prefer  tenderloin  toughs  and  Bowery  thugs  to 
professors  of  economics ;  then  take  them.  We  shall 
put  our  man  up  every  year,  and  when  you  are 
ready  for  clean  government  let  us  know  by  electing 
him,  and  we  will  see  that  he  does  his  duty." 

Here  then  is  where,  with  a  little  courage,  the 
[130] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

universities  might  step  into  a  path  which  would 
lead  toward  the  adequate  discharge  of  their  duty 
to  the  state.  They  already  teach  the  art  of  govern- 
ment in  the  classroom,  let  them  practice  it  in  the 
city  hall ;  for  only  by  doing  so  can  they  be  said  to  be 
advancing  toward  a  practical  dissemination  of  a 
knowledge  of  the  much  needed  art  of  government  in 
our  national  life. 

The  sixth  and  last  art  which  we  will  consider  is 
perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  all  to  disseminate 
among  the  outside  world,  first  perhaps  because 
the  colleges  themselves  are  by  no  means  convinced 
of  its  value,  and  secondly  because  the  world  is  not 
convinced  of  it  either.  But  in  the  opinion  of  some 
of  the  most  advanced  educators  of  today,  craftsman- 
ship is  the  one  study  which  should  be  placed  upon 
the  national  curriculum  as  compulsory.  It  would 
take  a  whole  and  a  long  article  to  go  into  the 
reason  for  this,  so  let  us,  granting  the  utility  of 
craftsmanship,  consider  an  idea  for  the  propagation 
of  it  throughout  the  state. 

In  every  city  we  find  scores,  nay  hundreds  of 
street-boys  to  whom  no  good  that  anyone  knows  of 
is  coming,  but  from  whom  much  evil  proceeds. 
Could  not  universities  like  Stanford  and  California 
utilize  their  professors  of  education  to  build  up  a 
colony  of  these  boys  somewhat  after  the  fashion 
of  the  George  Junior  Republics,  and  teach  them  the 
drama,  music,  singing,  writing,  and  government, 
and  make  them  into  craftsmen  at  the  same  time, 
the  work  of  course  being  done  by  the  students 
in  the  various  departments? 
[131] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

This  idea  is  not  as  foolish  and  visionary  as  it 
sounds,  as  an  enquiry  into  the  results  of  experi- 
ments along  similar  lines  will  quickly  convince  any- 
one who  will  trouble  to  make  it.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  more  easily  and  distinctly  practicable 
than  any  of  the  foregoing  suggestions.  Intensive 
agriculture  upon  some  of  the  vast  areas  of  culti- 
vable land  owned  by  universities  would  provide 
food  for  such  colonies;  houses  they  could  build 
themselves,  and  furniture  they  could  both  make, 
use,  and  sell,  together  with  a  hundred  other  things, 
the  construction  of  which  constitutes  a  high  art, 
and  an  art  very  much  needed  in  the  daily  lives  of 
all  our  people. 

With  such  a  colony  upon  the  campus  the  Stan- 
ford student  could  both  learn  and  teach,  and  learn 
to  teach  at  the  same  time.  What  is  more,  and 
what  is  of  higher  moral  value,  he  would  learn  the 
responsibility  of  disseminating  his  knowledge  of  the 
arts  among  those  less  advantageously  placed  than 
himself,  and  his  attention  would  not  therefore  be 
entirely  absorbed  by  the  preparation  for  the  achieve- 
ment of  his  own  personal  success. 

To  instruct  a  colony  of  a  hundred  boys  in  the 
work  of  agriculture,  horticulture,  masonry,  wood- 
carving,  bronze-casting,  book-binding,  drawing, 
cabinet-making,  architecture,  and  other  crafts, 
would  be  to  lay  a  foundation  for  a  higher  conception 
of  art  wherever  these  boys  ultimately  settled  down, 
and  scores  of  them  would  not  settle  down,  nor 
drift  away  from  the  precincts  of  the  university,  until 
they  too  had  procured  the  education,  the  priceless 
[132] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  STATE 

value  of  which  they  could  so  readily  see  all  around 
them. 

It  is  probable  that  that  the  state  of  the  future 
will  have  no  ugly  or  inartistic  thing  in  it.  Then 
let  us  train  minds  to  conceive  and  hands  to  con- 
struct beautiful  things,  so  that,  when  the  product 
of  the  artist  and  the  craftsman  is  called  for  with 
an  insistent  voice,  men  will  be  on  hand  to  deliver. 
For  it  takes  many  years  to  train  a  good  craftsman, 
and  therein  lies  the  reason  for  beginning  our  work 
in  the  dissemination  of  a  knowledge  of  that  art 
among  boys. 

The  universities  have  a  responsibility  to  the  state. 
Are  they  wholly  discharging  it?  Are  they  wholly 
discharging  it  toward  those  thousands  in  every 
state,  who,  while  they  support  the  universities, 
derive  no  direct  benefit  therefrom  whatever?  It 
is  to  these  that  every  college  which  has  already  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  about  the  personal  success  of 
its  students  owes  now  the  wide  and  persistent  dis- 
semination of  the  knowledge  of  the  arts. 


[133] 


HYLAS   AND   HERACLES 

By  FRANK  ERNEST  HILL 

This  is  the  story  men  were  wont  to  tell 

Of  Heracles,  and  Hylas,  whom  he  loved; 

Of  how  these  came  from  Argolis  to  join 

The  searchers  for  the  fabled  golden  fleece 

At  fair  lolchus,  where  old  ^Eson's  son 

Made  ready  for  his  cruise.     Of  how  they  sailed 

Off  on  the  Argo  toward  the  unknown  sea, 

And  of  what  fell  beside  the  Hellespont, 

Ere  that  the  ship  had  cleared  the  Mysian  coast 

And  clove  the  eastern  waves. 

Not  for  the  lips 

That  sing  of  love  as  of  a  revelry 
Was  passion  truly  born,  nor  yet  for  them 
That  worship  as  a  strange  and  sacred  flame 
The  chaste  desire — these  have  not  touched  the  string 
Whereto  the  blind  god  sings ;  they  have  not  found 
The  fulness  of  that  heavenly  malady 
For  which  Zeus  hoped  when  from  the  vapory  foam 
He  wrought  the  shape  of  love.    Yet  Heracles 
Knew  such  a  perfect  longing  for  the  lad 
Hylas,  the  golden  haired.    Not  the  warm  day 
Lazy  in  summery  beauty,  nor  the  night 
Starred  like  a  flower-decked  bride  with  ebon  hair, 
Parted  him  from  the  stripling;  nor  the  dawn, 
Laughing  beneath  the  radiance  of  her  locks 
In  the  gray  east.     For  him  he  loved  more  dear 
Than  memory  of  his  mother,  or  the  dream 
f  134  T 


HYLAS  AND  HERACLES 

Of  Zeus,  who  gave  him  life ;  for  he  had  taught 
The  slender  youth  the  art  of 'fields  and  war, 
And  how  the  singer  smites  upon  his  harp, 
And  pauses  on  the  first  few  painful  notes, 
Seeking  betimes  with  supplicating  breath 
Olympian  favor  ere  he  sound  his  lay. 

And  Heracles,  with  Hylas,  in  the  spring 

Came  to  lolchus,  where  the  Argonauts 

Were  gathering,  and  joined  the  adventurers 

Upon  their  perilous  quest.    When  the  low  fields 

Were  mellow  with  the  glory  of  the  spring, 

The  heroes  raised  their  sail,  and  towards  the  north, 

And  eastward  then,  all  the  long  summer,  ran 

Toward  Colchis  and  its  mist-enshrouded  sea. 

But  where  the  toneless,  narrow  necks  of  land 

Closed  the  Propontus  in  the  dubious  east 

The  heroes  stayed ;  for  past  that  sandy  gate 

The  dark  and  alien  flood  swept  into  mist, 

And  shadowy  mountains  rose  beyond  the  haze 

Like  the  thin  shapes  of  death,  and  from  the  lips 

Of  those  whose  ventures  on  the  unknown  depths 

Had  led  them  through  the  teeth  of  threatening  skies, 

There  came  no  hopeful  words.    Yet  on  the  shore, 

Just  ere  the  southern  coast  curved  to  the  straight, 

The  kinder  colors  of  the  happier  West 

Hung  on  the  forest,  and  the  beach  was  smooth 

With  terraced  lengths  of  sand.     And  lingering  here 

They  sought  the  sacrificial  voice  of  Zeus 

To  guide  them  on  their  quest,  drawing  their  bark 

High  on  the  sloping  shore,  while  silently 

[135] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

The  twilight  crept  with  vast  and  shadowy  wings 
Down  through  the  opal  vapors  in  the  west. 

Then,  while  the  oarsmen  on  the  leafy  sward 
Made  their  rough  beds  against  the  coming  night, 
Hylas  went  inland  with  a  brazen  vase 
To  seek  for  water.    From  the  sandy  shore 
On  to  the  wood,  lay  fading  meadow-grass, 
Long,  waving,  like  the  restless  ocean  weed 
Tossed  on  the  surface  of  the  shifting  sea. 
But  'neath  the  trees  the  leaf-mould  long  had  lain, 
And  withered  flowers,  the  dead  of  many  years 
In  dry,  pale  heaps,  and  here  the  burdened  grass 
Strewn  o'er  with  fallen  bloom  and  foliage, 
Faltered  in  shadows,  and  in  fading  hues 
Crept  hesitating  through  the  heavy  earth. 
The  glades  were  ruddying  in  the  final  sun 
Of  the  retreating  summer.    In  their  depths, 
Mossy,  and  brown,  and  gray  with  lichened  trunks, 
There  was  such  silence  as  though  all  the  earth 
Listened  eternally;  ocean,  air,  and  ground 
Sent  their  deep  pulse-beats — even  the  lightest  fall 
Of  the  descending  leaves  was  audible, 
And  the  low  drone  of  each  departing  sea. 

Soon  through  the  snaky  trunks  was  Hylas  ware 
Of  a  green  grotto  in  the  circling  glade, 
Found  by  the  damp  bed  of  a  stream,  lost  low 
In  flags  and  feathery  parsley.     There  a  spring 
Came  from  protecting  roots,  deep,  wondrous  clear, 
And  blue  as  evening  skies.    Around  its  edge 
Grew  swallow-wort  and  deer-grass,  and  the  bulbs 
[1361 


HYLAS  AND  HERACLES 

Of  long  since  blossomed  lilies.    Here  the  lad 

Stooped  with  his  pitcher,  letting  the  dark  flood 

Ooze  in  through  the  round  mouth  with  silent  eddies, 

And  gazing  on  his  fair  face  in  the  glass 

Of  the  still  water.    But,  alas !  the  beauty 

On  which  he  looked  lay  deeper  than  the  calm 

Of  the  cool  fountain's  brim ;  far  down  below 

The  dreaded  water-goddesses  that  live 

In  sculptured  haunts  of  stone  saw  his  pale  face, — 

Eunice  and  Malis  with  their  shimmering  locks, 

And  sweet  Nycheia  of  the  April  eyes. 

Up  from  their  phantom  dwelling  came  the  nymphs, 

Swift  as  the  radiant  light  of  darting  dawn, 

And  wove  their  clinging  arms  about  the  form 

Of  the  unhappy  boy,  for  lo !  his  hair 

And  shining  limbs  had  made  them  mad  for  him ; 

And  down  he  sank  into  the  purpling  flood 

As  suddenly  behind  the  twilight  hills 

The  sun  dips  into  beds  of  clouds;  down,  down, 

Where  in  the  half-light  of  the  changing  pool 

The  waterfolk  weave  their  elusive  dance; 

And  there,  with  many  a  fond  caress  and  song, 

The  goddesses  long  sought  to  charm  away 

The  lingering  pain  of  human  memories. 

Long  after  the  strong  flush  of  day  had  paled 
Beyond  the  western  ocean,  Heracles 
Waited  beside  the  vessel  the  return 
Of  fair-haired  Hylas.     Then  he  took  his  spear, 
And  strung  his  horned  bow,  and  strapped  his  sword 
Close  to  his   leathern  side,   and  through  the   wood 
Went  shouting,  "Hylas!"     Him  the  imprisoned  boy, 
[137] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Deep   in   the   gray   enchantment   of  the   spring, 

Heard  as  a  lost  child  some  familiar  voice, 

And  answered;  but  the  muffling  waters  held 

His  accents,  so  that  ever  to  the  ear 

Of  Heracles  they  seemed  far  off  and  thin, 

As  though  across  long  mountains.     Tremblingly 

He  shouted,  and  the  startled  fastnesses 

Shrieked  at  his  brazen  tones,  while  through  the  trees 

Blindly  he  sped,  breaking  the  futile  thorns 

That  barred  his  path;  now  pausing  in  his  flight 

Once  more  to  call,  and,  maddened  that  the  sound 

Seemed  now  in  farther  regions,  plunging  on, 

Wild  with  his  agony.     The  twining  trunks 

Of  knotted  oaks  he  grasped  and  tore  aside 

Like  rushes  from  his  path,  and  where  the  leaves 

Of  interlacing  vines  wove  their  close  net 

He  paused  not,  but  rushed  onward  through  the  dark, 

Unhindered.    But  although  the  fibery  hands 

Of  earth  might  hold  him  not,  yet  never  there 

Found  he  the  boy,  nor  ever  seemed  the  voice 

Of  the  lost  lad  more  near,  but  always  faint 

And  luring,  like  an  echo.     Then  he  cursed, 

And  cast  his  bow  aside,  and  his  swift  spear, 

And  went  bare  handed  through  the  blinding  glades, 

Now  crying  of  great  deeds  that  he  had  done, 

And  now  beseeching  piteously  the  gods 

To  aid  his  quest.    And  so  he  fled,  while  Love 

Drave  him  still  onward. 

Now  upon  the  shore 
The  smoke  of  sacrifice  had  died  away, 
The  midnight  crescent  rose  through  restless  clouds, 
[138] 


HYLAS  AND  HERACLES 

And  the  inspiring  stars  hung  o'er  the  ship, 
Urging  departure,  for  the  wind  blew  east 
And  the  great  sea  behind  the  straits  was  calm. 
Three  times  the  heroes  lifted  up  their  sail 
With  rising  winds,  and  thrice  they  lowered  it, 
Waiting  for  Heracles.     Yet  when  the  breeze 
Strengthened  again,  and  early  morn  grew  faint, 
Like  a  vague  prophecy  far  in  the  night, 
They  took  the  rushing  tide,  and  smote  the  waves 
With  pliant  oars,  and  through  the  gloomy  gate 
Sped  sorrowfully,  with  many  a  sounding  cry 
To  which  no  answer  came.    So,  at  the  dawn, 
They  sailed  upon  the  unfamiliar  sea. 

On  the  gray  beach  at  breaking  of  the  sun 
Sat  Heracles.     His  hands  held  the  two  parts 
Of  his  snapped  sword,  with  which  he  played  betimes 
With  clenched  and  swollen  fingers.     Overhead 
The  croaking  seabirds  wheeled,  and  he  would  fling 
His  trembling  arms  toward  these,  and  curse  at  them 
And  laugh,  and  curse  the  gods  more  loudly  still. 
Here  the  rude  swains  that  turn  the  inland  soil 
With  their  bright  ploughshares,  found  him  as  they 

came 

Down  to  the  sea  for  salmon.     And  these  bare 
The  vase  of  bronze  that  Hylas  took  with  him 
In  which  to  carry  water;  and  they  told 
Of  how  the  nymphs  sport  in  the  secret  spring 
Where  they  had  found  it,  and  how  many  men, 
Coming  from  far-off  lands,  who  had  not  bought 
Their  safety  at  the  shrine  of  Artemis, 
Who  kept  the  aged  forest,  had  been  lost, 
[139] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Stolen  by  the  amorous  goddesses,  who  move 

With  flashing  limbs  that  seem  but  sunny  gleams 

In  the  still  waters.     Then  the  hero  rose, 

And  gazed  on  them  with  dim  and  hollow  eyes; 

And  in  his  countenance  was  such  a  hue 

As  shadows  suddenly  the  fitful  sky 

When,  in  the  north,  the  wrath  of  harbored  storms 

Shakes  forth  in  thunder.    And  he  spake  to  them 

In  accents  dissonant  and  very  strange, 

Tired  and  sad,  as  echo  through  the  mists 

The  inconsistent  voices  of  the  wind. 

"Fishers,  ye  know  not  all  the  bitterness 

That  stays  with  life,  no — though  the  telling  frost 

Of  age  is  on  your  tresses,  and  no  more 

Ye  watch  the  young  lambs  by  the  laurel's  shade, 

And  pipe  to  hoofed  Pan.     For  unto  you 

The  misery  and  madness  of  great  love 

Hath  never  come.     This  Cypris  stored  for  me 

With  cruel,  discriminate  hands — for  this  I  loved 

This  lost  lad,  who  was  fairer  than  the  gods, 

And  whom  the  envious  keepers  of  the  spring 

Have  stolen  from  me  forever.    The  power  of  men 

Is  fleeting  as  the  hue  of  waning  dawn, 

And  we  are  like  these  lumps,  of  listless  sand 

That  shape  to  every  pressure  of  our  fingers. 

Our  beauty  and  our  strength  are  of  such  dust, 

Only  our  passion  lasts !    For  it  is  strong, 

And  wantons  with  the  subjugated  flesh, 

Saying,  "Youth,  beauty,  pride,  and  strength  of  limb, 

These  are  the  flowers  that  I  have  plucked  to  toy, 

And  these  I  shall  fling  from  me,  one  by  one, 

[140] 


HYLAS  AND  HERACLES 

When  they  grow  withered,  and  are  young  no  more." 

This  is  the  power  of  all-compelling  love, 

And  this  I  know,  for  all  that  echoing  night 

As  in  a  horrid  dream  I  ranged  the  wood, 

Nor  thorns,  nor  limbs  of  trees,  nor  the  steep  hills 

Might  hinder  me,  for  all  things  of  this  earth 

I  break  with  these  my  hands.    Only  the  strength 

Of  mad  desire,  relentless,  mocked  at  me, 

Only  the  uncompassionate  god  of  Love 

Laughed  as  I  tore  the  thickets  like  a  beast 

Maddened  with  wounds.     Ah,  what  are  these,  our 

limbs, 

That  move  for  love,  yet  cannot  dream  to  clasp 
Their  unsubstantial  hope,  nor  leave  their  quest, 
Though  it  lead  on  to  death  ?" 

And  they,  being  wise, 

Though  simple,  answered  that  perchance  some  day 
Zeus  would  have  pity  on  him,  and  restore 
The  vanished  boy.     "Ah,  I  have  called  to  Zeus, 
And  he  has  scorned  me.    And  the  love  I  bear 
This  sweet,  lost  lad  will  never  fade  from  me, 
For  it  is  strong,  even  as  the  gods  themselves, 
And  all  as  pitiless."    And  then  he  asked, 
Watching  with  hopeless  eyes  the  changing  foam, 
"Which  is  the  way  to  Colchis?"     And  they  said, 
"It  is  too  long,  but  lies  across  the  strait, 
So  men  have  said,  off  where  the  sun  is  born." 
And  hearing  this,  he  took  from  the  rude  swains 
A  boat,  and  rowed  across  the  narrow  gulf 
Unto  the  northern  shore,  and  went  from  thence 
By  land  to  Colchis ;  and  they  say  that  there 
[141] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

He  joined  with  Jason,  and  bare  back  the  fleece 
To  proud  lolchus.    But  the  life  of  him 
He  left  behind,  beside  the  Hellespont. 


[142] 


THE    DARK 

By  FRANK  WALTER  WEYMOUTH 

Feed  the  dead  leaves  with  care;  the  greedy  flame 
Devours  them  all  too  quickly — slower  still: 
The  night  is  long,  and  late  will  dawn  the  day ; 
The  day  is  short,  but  oh,  how  long  the  night ! 
A  weary  time  while  the  close-pressing  dark 
Crushes  us  down.    More  care,  that  leaf  was  damp ! 
If  the  light  fails,  what  hope  is  there  for  us? 

Tis  well  we  are  together — one  more  leaf — 
One  night  you  were  not  here — the  long,  warm  days 
Of  many  a  summer  have  not  dimmed  the  fear 
I  learned  in  that  eternity  of  dark. 
While  there  was  light  I  walked  with  little  fear — 
While  there  was  light — but  night  has  fallen  now. 
Were  I  to  take  three  paces  from  this  flame, 
In  silence  would  black  terror  strike  me  down, 
In  silence  and  in  darkness. — What  was  that? 
Will  the  flame  fail  us?    As  you  love  your  life, 
Let  not  your  hand  shake  when  you  feed  the  flame ! 

Well,  it  has  passed — so  weak  is  one  alone; 
But  now  we  two — why,  we  can  laugh  at  them — 
And  perish?     Well,  what  of  it?  we  have  laughed. 
Here  in  the  dark  we'll  live  the  hunt  again, 
Your  stroke  and  mine,  and  I  will  praise  your  skill; 
Now  we  are  strong — and  do  not  fear  the  night. 
A  lie  ?    Yes,  and  a  bold  one,  let  it  pass. 
Aye,  we  are  two — are  not  the  gods  less  strong? 
[143] 


ENGLISH  CLUB  YEAR  BOOK 

Come,  let  us  mock  the  gods  and  die — our  scorn 

Shall  turn  their  secret  dwelling-places,  hid 

In  utter  darkness,  to  such  hateful  things 

That  they  shall  loathe  them,  and  our  mocking  laugh, 

Ever  reechoing  from  the  barren  walls, 

Shall  drive  them  mad,  and  they  may  not  escape. 

Or  if  they  dare  not  strike,  we'll  taunt  the  more ; 

Why  should  we  bow  to  that  which  has  not  strength? 

The  shadow  of  my  hand  upon  that  rock, 

Misshapen,  huge,  a  menace — but  a  shadow — 

So  are  the  gods. 

A  leaf  upon  the  flame! 
Draw  nearer,  let  us  shield  it — closer  still — 
And  our  leaves,  too — will  they  last  out  the  night? 


[144 


CAPTIVE 

By  ERNEST  JEROME  HOPKINS 

I  won  thee  as  my  sword's  own  meed; 

No  puny  vows  I  sware ; 
I  flung  thee,  swooned,  across  my  steed; 

Three  strokes;  a  lunge;  the  reins  flung  free  .  .  . 

Then  night,  and  thou,  my  destiny! 
Between  thy  sobs  I  heard  thee  plead. 

Look,  thou  art  free.    I  loose  thy  hands, 
The  leathern  thong  unbind. 

Seek,  an  thou  wilt,  thy  kinsman's  lands ; — 
The  old  ones  wait, — and  thou  art  free — 
Thine  arms?  The  hushed  "I  stay— with  thee!" 

Ah,  Freya  understands. 


[145] 


THE  DEPARTURE 

By  ERNEST  JEROME  HOPKINS 

It  may  not  be  a  sterner  thrill  of  pain 

Than  holds  the  swimmer,  dropping  to  a  stream, 
Whence,  as  he  leaps,  some  steely,  sudden  gleam 

Sets  tiny  teeth  of  fear  in  every  vein. 

It  may  be,  that  the  moon  of  life  will  wane 
As  slow  as  dims  e'er  dawn  the  crescent's  beam,- 
When  death,  in  raiment  as  a  radiant  dream, 

Shall  lay  its  numbing  finger  on  the  brain. 

For  not  to  him  that  journeys  is  the  sorrow. 
'Tis  ours,  who  mourn  and  wonder,  knowing  not 
Whither  he  fled  that  late  has  taken  flight  ;— 
Nor  if  his  doubt  be  solved,  or  all  forgot; 
Nor  if  he  find,  in  that  untold  tomorrow, 
Eternal  knowledge  or  eternal  night. 


[146] 


SONG 

By  ERNEST  JEROME  HOPKINS 

Love  that  strays  and  roams  forever, 
Changing  ever,  yet  the  same, 

Though  it  ranges,  resting  never, 
Are  ye  sorry  that  it  came? 

Love  that  comes  and  roves  forever, 

Constant  never,  still  the  same. 

Love  the  winsome,  laughing  ever, 

(Smiles  but  move  her,  wiles  but  win) 

Though  our  wits  be  in  us  never, 

Are  ye  sad  that  Love  came  in? 

Love  the  winsome,  sending  ever 

Smiles  to  move  her,  wiles  to  win ! 

Love  the  lazy,  languid  ever, 

Happy  never,  ill  content, 
Ho,  because  it  went  forever 

Were  ye  weeping  that  it  went? 
Love  that  fled  with  youth  forever ; 

Fool,  and  are  thou  not  content? 


[147] 


THE  ALIEN 
By  ALICE  WINDSOR  KIMBALL 

As  you  walked,  by  night,  the  path  through  the  wood, 

All  alone,  all  alone, 
Oh,  what  was  the  music  you  heard  as  you  stood 

By  the  wishing-stone  ? 
From  the  dark,  from  the  emptiness  under  the  trees 

Did  you  hear,  did  you  hear 
A  sound  high  above  the  slow-singing  breeze, 
Sweet  and  clear,  sweet  and  clear — 
The  voice  of  wee  fiddles,  the  shrilling  of  pipes,  the 

patter  of  dancing  feet  so  near 

That  you  thought — did  you  not? — "Should  I  breathe, 
should  I  stir,  they  will  stop,  they  will  know  I  am 
here!" 

Did  you  look,  through  the  veil  that  the  dim  leaves 
hung 

All  around,  all  around, 
For  the  gay  little  people  who  danced  and  sung 

On  the  ground,  on  the  ground? 
Seeing  naught,  did  you  know  you  were  far  away — 

All  alone — all  alone — 
From  these  folk,  and  had  never  a  right  to  stay 

By  the  wishing-stone? 
Ah,  theirs  is  the  forest !     Pale  light  of  the  moon  is  to 

them  as  the  glory  of  noonday  sun! 
— Did  you  go,  soft  and  slow,  though  your  heart  bade 
you  stay,  stay  on  till  the  revel  was  done? 

[148] 


THE  LAND  O'  THE  MOON 

By  ALICE  ELEANOR  SHINN. 

When  evening  is  hanging  her  lamp  in  the  east, 

Out  on  the  edge  of  the  world, 

When  gold-dusted  poppies  are  drowsy  and  sweet, 

And  twilight's  gray  depths  but  star-pearled — 

Then  loosen  thy  soul  like  a  scarf  in  the  wind, 

And  waft  like  a  dream  through  the  air 

To  enter  the  portals  called  Land  o'  the  Moon, — 

Oh,  it  is  wondrously  fair! 

You  may  wander  the  gardens  of  fanciful  dreams 

But  the  doors  of  the  Temple  are  barred, 

Lest  thou  offer  for  toll  all  thy  sorrowing  woe, 

Willow-wood  leaves,  autumn-scarred. 

For  that  is  the  solace  for  rose-leaves  blown  sear — 

Beauty  to  make  the  heart  swoon, 

And  Joy-in-the- World,  the  fragrance  and  balm 

Of  this  bountiful  Land  o'  the  Moon. 


[149] 


SONG 

By  AURANIA  ELLERBECK 

Love,  I  would  sing  a  note  to  you, 
A  tender,  searching  note  to  you, 
And  if  my  sorrow's  music  meets  your  ear, 
My  patient  throat, 

My  tender  note, 

Will  draw  you  near. 

Love,  I  would  make  a  prayer  to  you, 
A  silent  prayer  of  tears  to  you, 
And  if  it  finds  an  answer  in  your  heart, 
My  aching  fears, 

My  prayer  of  tears, 

Have  done  their  part. 

Love,  I  will  give  a  life  to  you, 
A  somber,  star-lit  life  to  you, 
And  if  it  leaves  a  memory  in  your  breast, 
My  song,  my  fears, 

My  prayer,  my  tears, 

Have  made  it  blest. 


150] 


